


I'm Your Man

by swamplamp



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Noir, Gun Violence, M/M, Murder, Nefarious Schemes, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, Violence, incredibly shitty detective work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26565724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swamplamp/pseuds/swamplamp
Summary: “I think I just assaulted a police officer,” Tom exclaims as he barrels down the street.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 17
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3V2yyf8bvcXTbjl1zqJ7F4?si=oT95L3_fRZqNLS2P9xcZ4g), which was collaboratively compiled in a back alley at midnight with the infamous DPW

Gregory Hirsch comes into his office ten minutes to closing time with the cuff of his sleeves frayed and his hair unkempt. His sentences are scattered to hell and the pupils of his watery blue eyes dart all over the room. He sputters like a man outrunning the truth, and yet Greg speaks no word of a lie. Private detective Tom Wambsgans is sure of it. Tom’s suffered enough liars in his time to know one when he sees one. That makes the kid worse than a liar; it makes him sincere. Tom hates him immediately. 

Tom doesn’t need to listen to his jabbering. He already knows about the circus fire and the high-profile arrest that followed. He had watched the news headlines come in, enthralled by the images of a terrible blaze engulfing the circus site. While the reported death toll and destruction was nothing short of harrowing, he felt some satisfaction in knowing that that property finally met its end. Arson, they said. He had half a mind to have torched the sucker himself. Good for Kendall. 

Tom cuts in, “Then why come to me? Why not just get him a better lawyer—or a priest?”

“No. See, Detective Wambsgans—"

“Just ‘Detective’ is fine.”

“Um, right. Detective, I’m not so, uh, interested in getting involved with the events surrounding the fire. This is more about continuing the work that Kendall started before he was arrested.”

"His work. His work with the documents he stole from his father's company," Tom clarifies.

"Well, yes."

“So, you’re asking me to what? Make copies and nail them to a door? Throw them into the wind in the middle of Times Square? You're sure you're not looking for a printing press and not a detective?"

A crease forms between the kid’s brows, seemingly out of incomprehension rather than injury. Greg, wide-eyed and of fine and fair complexion, appears young and a little dull, as if a quicker insult might’ve rolled off of him like rainwater to an umbrella. And yet, he responds, "The position that I'm in right now. It's, uh. Precarious, maybe? That’s why I came to you. This isn't so simple. Considering who I'm up against. I figured you personally would understand how complicated it can get?”

“How do you mean?”

“I figured... Your history with, um— What with your divorce and the subsequent termination of your employment and all that. I hear it didn’t go so clean. I mean, for you. You might have a bone to pick with the Roys, so to speak?”

Tom considers the topic of his past with the Roys as off-limits to close acquaintances, no less to potential clients. He consciously unclenches his jaw before responding. “You waltz in here knowing everything there is to know about me, and you still think I’d be onboard with helping you throw stones at Waystar Royco?”

The sides of Greg's mouth go up in an odd frown. Tom reads it as defeat, certain that he'll withdraw. Greg tips his head slightly and answers as though it’s obvious: “Yes.”

Tom is flummoxed, enough to forget to conceal it. 

Greg does him the favor of continuing, "Look, I know what this sounds like and - and I know that all I've got is a stack of papers that I can't understand on my own. But I also know that they were important enough for Kendall to be framed by his own family, just because he had them at all. You know the lay of the land and I'm, um, I'm inclined to believe you might know a thing or two about the company and the family. I... See, I think you're the only one that can help me."

Tom narrows his eyes. He leans back in his seat and knits his fingers together in a show of contemplation, forcing him to wait on his reply. He takes in the grim lines that have formed around Greg’s mouth and his cutting gaze. He realizes then that he can’t quite place his age by looks alone. There’s something vaguely unnerving about his entire person. Tom has never met him before, but he can't help but feel like he's sat across from him sometime in the past. Like he once conjured up his image while reading a description in a story. He can’t quite place it and the uncertainty makes him very conscious of his own pulse. 

"I'll be honest with you,” Tom says slowly. “I’m not all that interested in what you’ve brought me. In fact, everything about you and this case make me feel uneasy."

Greg starts to object. He flusters like a fish out of water.

Tom speaks over him, continuing, "I’ll offer you the courtesy of not telling Logan Roy what you’ve told me or what you have in your possession, only under the circumstance that you leave my sight before I change my mind. Please leave.” Tom ushers Greg out with a hearty handshake and a firm farewell, sending him back onto the street where he belongs.

Tom had wanted to go home before, but that desire ran astray the second Greg left his office. Late into the evening, he remains at his desk and makes it his duty to finish the bottle of scotch stored in the corner filing cabinet. He had gotten as far as turning off all the lights, so now he sits in the dark, blowing cigarette smoke up towards the ceiling.

He feels jittery and wonders if Greg has a habit of running up and down town all day upturning the peace of anyone he makes acquaintance. He did a thorough job of it with him.

Truthfully, he's had only one new case in recent months. He got tied up with just the one, which came to a standstill last week. Mary Sutherland enlisted him in tracking down her husband, Elliott Sutherland. Tom knew Elliott from Waystar, back in the day. Typically, he'd reject any cases tangentially related to the company, but Mary Sutherland was not his typical clientele. In his line of work, he tends to see a certain type—people more like Greg, in terms of financial well-being. Mary offered an extortionate amount of money as a bonus, given that he crack the case of her husband's disappearance. Double the amount if it led to an arrest. Tom drove as far as Wyoming himself to track any sign of him down, but returned empty-handed. Ever since then, he's been sitting on his hands, reluctant to admit that his efforts have amounted to nothing. That bonus pay would have been everything.

Tom’s thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a tapping at his door. There's not enough light to make out a shape through the opaque glass. He slips his hand under the desk to grasp his Colt revolver from its hiding place, then asks in a low voice, "Who’s there?"

"Tom. It’s just me." Before he can place a name to the voice, the door opens and Tom thinks he's dreaming.

“Siobhan. Shiv." He does away with the gun, then furtively runs both hands down the front of his slacks. He comes to a stand. "What - what are you— Hi.”

“You look good,” she greets him flatly, her eyes looking straight through him. 

"So do you. You look great," he replies, meaning it. She looks every bit of how Tom remembers her: all soft and gentle curves with those piercing almond-shaped eyes. She wears an angular skirt suit with a high drape neck, the whole ensemble made of dark grey wool. She is the image of everything that drew him to this city. She glimmers, even in the dark.

“Private detecting treating you well, I take it?” She leans against the side of a file cabinet to the right of his desk. Tom sits down.

“It’s interesting work. I keep the company of tired insurance companies or suspicious housewives these days. It keeps me busy. You’ve been alright? I heard the news about your brother.”

“Sure. My dad’s on the warpath. He’s got me and Roman on clean-up duty. Charred remains and the like. Lawsuits. Paperwork. It’s been real peachy. Here, I brought you something.” Like a sleight of hand trick, she produces a bottle of port. She places it on the edge of his desk.

Tom recognizes the label. It’s expensive. Once-familiar. He suffers a blow of nostalgia for his former life, then realizes all at once: “You need something from me.”

Shiv doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s a two-way deal, actually. A little something for us, a big something for you. Shall I go on?”

Tom nods slowly.

“Greg Hirsch came in here earlier to see you. What did he tell you?”

“I can’t legally say.”

“That's fine. Did you take his case?”

“Shiv,” he objects.

“Well, if you have, then good. If not, you should call him up and tell him you’ve changed your mind.”

“You... I mean, it‘s about the meatpacking controversy. The one from back in '41? You want me to carry out the investigation on that one?”

“Yes and no. Move his case along enough to see what he's up to. Greg wants to kick up old dust, that’s fine. See where his trail leads.”

Tom rubs at his chin, considering her words. Once upon a time, he was at her beck and call. But his good graces with the company ran out and, with it, his marriage. With him and Shiv, their personal and professional lives were inseparable; that was the nature of their relationship, always. But they came to a point where Tom's presence obstructed Shiv's growth in the professional realm, so he bowed out. The way Tom sees it, Shiv’s independence is a product of the modern era. He’s a modern man himself. He loves and respects her enough to know not to get in the way of that. He’s entirely happy for her. He’s overjoyed. Truly.

He asks carefully, “Is this coming from you or from Logan?"

Her eyes cut to the side, her patience tested. Tom knows that look. He almost forgot it. She says, "You'll be my man on the inside, just like old times. Gather intel. Report back to me on a regular basis. And I want this done quietly, obviously."

The words ring in his ears like pretty little bells: just like old times. As in, no one in her family or the company knows or should know that she was ever here. He crosses his arms and offers, "He says he’s been in contact with Kendall."

"That so?" she responds, brow raised. She's interested. "What's Kendall been telling him?"

He steps around his desk to come closer, then leans back on the edge. "So, uh. This would be a real case then. You hiring me? You were saying earlier, about how there's something in it for me, so what’s the, uh...?"

"Well, I’ll pay you. You name the rate. And prove to me that you can get this done and I'll get you back into the company. Not in entertainment this time. We've been looking for someone to chair our news division. Cyd's looking at retirement, but she'll be around long enough to show you the ropes and, eventually, it'd be all yours."

Tom scoffs, absolutely stunned. "News? Really?"

"Uh huh."

“So this is... would I be— Does this mean I’d be back in the running for the top job? Chief executive?”

“If you play your cards right.”

"My god. This is tremendous.” He shakes his head, disbelieving. "But - but... This is exciting, but also an awful lot of trouble for looking into one person. Isn’t it? Who is this kid to you?"

"Did he not tell you? Greg's a cousin of ours. He's family. Distant family, but you know. Showed up out of nowhere a couple weeks back."

Tom squints into a middle space, digesting that information. He doesn’t doubt its veracity, but it’s unexpected, nonetheless. "He came in with some documents. I didn't get a look at them myself, but he implied that it’s damning proof against the company. Know anything about that?"

"Get them for me?"

"It's a deal."

\---

Greg has gone for a walk. His path is circuitous, winding through street corners and dimly lit parks. He’s been walking for some time now, and he knows this because the traffic on the streets has thinned out since he left the detective’s office. He walks the streets at a practiced and intentional rate: fast enough to suggest he’s got a destination in mind, but slow enough not to catch anyone’s eye. 

He knows he’s being watched, regardless. He’s never seen the person’s face. He doesn’t quite know if they’re out there now, but it’s become an accepted constant to him lately. Sometimes they’re on foot, sometimes they take a car. Sometimes they get close enough for him to cast aside any doubts of their presence. Greg isn’t fearful of the situation, not necessarily. It’s just a disconcerting feeling, a lot of the time.

So he takes the long way home. When the joints in his knees and the soles of his feet ache and it’s a little past 9 p.m., the person following him makes their presence known. The sound of them whistling the tune to “Three O’Clock in the Morning” echoes up and down the street, which puts a lurch in Greg’s stomach. He quickens his pace, doing well not to break out into a sprint. He knows better than to goad them into a chase. A car draws nearer from behind and, at that point, he’s certain that he’s done for.

The car breaks whine as it comes to a stop right next to him. Greg stiffly turns his head to face the assailant and boggles at the familiar sight of the private investigator from earlier. He’s driving a black four-door sedan and wearing an unseasonably cheerful expression. Greg blinks, unsure if he’s imagining things.

Detective Tom Wambsgans hollers from the window, “What’s a fella like you doing in a place like this in the middle of the night? Come on. Get in.” And Greg does.

As soon as Greg shuts the door, they drive off. The detective says by way of explanation, “You weren’t completely honest with me today.”

“I didn’t lie to you.”

“Right, but you didn’t tell me the whole story. The important parts. Are you aware you’re being followed?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re aware of who is following you?”

“One of the company’s people, I suppose?”

He nods, eyes on the road. “Do you keep those documents at home?”

Greg knows better than to answer. He keeps his mouth shut.

Tom suggests, nearly sounding like a question: “You have them with you right now.”

He looks over at the detective who looks pleased with the information he plucked from Greg’s silence. Greg isn’t always a weak liar, but his head feels too foggy tonight to conceal much of anything. Out the window, he sees that they’re headed in the opposite direction of where he lives. “Where are we going? Hold on, are - are you— Is this a kidnapping?”

“Would you relax? I’m taking your case. And I’m just getting you off the streets.”

“How did you find where I was, Detective?”

“Tom. Call me Tom. I followed the guy following you," Tom answers. They come to a stop, and Tom gets out of the car to hand his keys over to a valet attendant. "Come on."

Greg follows him down a set of stairs that smells of an off-putting combination of old cigarettes and seawater. He's led into what appears to be a lavishly decorated lounge with three working fountains in the middle of a large rectangular pool of water. 

"Seems somewhat impractical, don't you think?" Greg observes, "Fountains in a basement."

Tom eyes him for a brief moment, not appearing to have heard what he said. He says, "Sit down over there. I'll be just a moment." He motions towards a vague direction, then walks off. 

The place is very bright. Greg ducks into the nearest available booth. He takes out his pack of cigarettes, despite knowing it's empty. He needs something to do with his hands. If he was being honest, he'd admit that he intended on visiting Tom's office again later in the week, even if it was to get pushed out the door one more time. Greg is interested in seeing where this goes. He gets the sense that Tom is like a three-headed chimera, every look and every word a surprise to all parties involved. He wonders if Tom will change his mind again by the end of the night.

The lounge is spacious, and he can't quite tell where Tom's gone or how long he'll be away. He nearly jumps when Tom appears a second later, a legion of waiters in tow. 

Tom grins proudly as their table is covered with plates of food. Greg feels his gut clench at the rich scent of butter and herbs. Through the decadent, billowing steam that rises from the plates between them, Greg asks, "So, Tom? You, um, you sounded relatively adamant about not taking my case earlier? But now, uh—"

"I changed my mind." Tom nods, pouring wine into the glass in front of Greg. "I looked into your background a little. After you left."

"Oh, uh. What did you find? About me, exactly?"

Tom meets his gaze, a bright glint in his eyes. "You’re a Roy.”

"Not technically...”

"You know, that makes the two of us practically family."

"Maybe not anymore, because—"

"No, it does." Tom raises his glass in his direction. In a toast, he says, "Here's to family and our newfound partnership.”

Greg drinks to that, albeit dubiously. Tom so eagerly puts on a display of food and drink that Greg knows he’d deal the man much injury if he were to decline. And, besides, Greg has been so hungry. Tom feeds him green salads, stuffed clams, caviar, and a whole parade of other dishes Greg has never seen before. Tom talks to him in such a flurry, telling him about the origin of caviar and from where the clams have come. In the lush semi-circular booth, Greg feels as though he's been swept up and wrapped in a cocoon. He marvels, eyes wide, “Where did you learn all this?”

“In my previous line of work, you had to be in the know. Kept me on my toes.”

“How come you, um— How did you decide on becoming a private investigator? It seems like, I don’t know, a strange career move from where you were before?”

“It was a logical jump from where I was standing. I have a keen eye for when someone else is lying, always did. Comes in handy quite often on the job.”

“Would you say you’re in high demand? You seemed busy when I, uh... How many active cases are you on, at the moment?”

“Just one other case. I prefer to concentrate my attention on one at a time, as a matter of fact.”

“One at a time? So... So, what’ll become of the other case, now that you’re taking mine?”

“The other case has been on a considerable downswing. It’s practically closed already.”

“Would you say it went well?”

“Are you vetting me right now, Greg?” Tom chuckles. “If I say it didn’t, would you walk out the door?”

“No, no. I’m just— I’m interested. In what you do. I’ve never met a PI before.”

Tom’s smile widens. Over the rim of his wine glass, he asks Greg, “Are you looking to get into the craft yourself?”

“I might be.” 

“Are you currently employed?”

“Mm, no. Not anymore.” Sitting back, he feels his limbs getting heavier. His face is warm from the wine and food. Without any windows or clocks around, there’s no knowing how much time has passed. He’s not even fully certain how he got here at all. Greg stifles a yawn.

"You can't bow out now, guy. Not before the final course."

With two snaps of his fingers, Tom summons a waiter, and the waiter unscrews a dark long-necked bottle of alcohol with an old-looking label. In a series of swift movements, the waiter prepares two glasses. The drink flows bright green onto a sugar cube placed over a slotted triangular spoon. The waiter sets the sugar cubes on fire with a long reach match. Twin blue flames dance over the spoons. Greg scoots away from the flames.

While the sugar cubes bubble up, Tom says, "I don't suppose you've ever tried absinthe before."

"Is this— I read about this. It’s the drink that makes you hallucinate, isn’t it?"

"It's a lot of fun, Greg. It's what the French drink. Technically illegal in the United States. That's just half the appeal of it—as is the case with many vices in this world.” Tom adds darkly: “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Greg sits watchful of Tom’s expression. He’s alluding to something other than prohibition laws, although it occurs to Greg that he could be alluding to any number of things that Greg might be involved in. He admits to nothing. Laws can stand to be bent under special circumstances. But anyone would know that. 

Together, they take a hearty pull of absinthe. For lack of a better word, it’s a jarring experience and it wakes Greg up immediately. Bold now from the drink, he asks, “Do you plan on remarrying?”

“Me? Ah, I haven’t really thought of it. I’m not so sure that I can.”

“What do you mean?”

Tom tilts his head, eyes upward in thought. “It’s complicated. You know how it is.”

"Do I?"

"Sure. I mean, you know Shiv. And the family. How they work. Once you're in their orbit, you can never quite pull out of it. But never mind all that. Look where we are now,” Tom says cheerfully, palm up to remind them of their surroundings. “Who needs a wife when you can have all this on your own? Right?”

Wordlessly, Greg looks down at his drink, which had gone murky from the sugar. He empties his glass, tossing it back and wincing at the burn it leaves in its wake. 

Tom watches him with an open look of approval. "Drink up," he says, refilling Greg's glass. "The whole bottle's ours."

\---

An unforeseen difficulty with getting Greg sloppy drunk is the task of herding him and all his limbs into Tom’s sedan afterwards. Greg breaks three pieces of glassware on the way out of the restaurant, not counting the vase that the hostess catches before it reaches the ground. Tom steadies Greg when he trips a full two yards away from the beginning of the stairs, so he allows Greg to drape his arms over Tom’s shoulders like the spoils of an African hunting excursion.

“You’re awfully tall, you know,” Greg murmurs against the side of his face, talkative now. He’s close, very close to Tom. “I’ve never met someone as tall as you, and I’ve met a lot of people.”

“And where’ve you met all these people?”

“All kinds of... places. Places. Lots of countries. Lots of people.”

“Sure, you’re a real jet-setting socialite.” Tom feels himself breaking a sweat, essentially hauling Greg up the stairs. He’s most certainly heavier than he looks. These are not ideal interrogation conditions. "Where were you raised? Somewhere nearby?"

“Canada, mostly. Ontario, where my Grandpa Ewan lives."

"How'd you make it over here?"

"I was in, uh, boarding school. For a long while. My mom put me up in one. She said she wanted me to be close to her. But," Greg laughs in a way that doesn't sound like a laugh. It comes out as a low grunt. "She didn't have much reason to stop by, I think."

"Your mother is a Roy, isn’t she?"

"Only in name," he answers in a singsong voice, like it's something he's heard many times before. "I’m staying in this country, though. Here, because— Because I need to stay here. They might need me again.”

“What do you mean? Who?”

In answer, Greg brings his weight down on Tom’s shoulders further as he says, “You paid for everything tonight. I can’t imagine how much that must’ve cost. What’s... what’s going to happen now?” 

Tom sighs. Greg sounds so small when he asks him that. When they get to the top of the stairs, Tom can’t help but reassure him, “We’re going home. To my place. Can you stand on your own?”

When Greg attempts it, he bangs his elbow into the wall and turns to the wall to apologize, both hands flat against the concrete. Tom hopes he doesn’t vomit on his upholstery on the way home. The valet attendant brings the car around and opens the passenger side door for Greg. Tom gets into the driver side and, at that point, can only grit his teeth in silence as he waits for Greg to bump and ricochet into his seat. Tom runs his intended questions through his head, unsure if this was such a good idea after all.

When Tom starts to drive, Greg has gone quiet. "Greg?"

"Uh huh." His voice is muffled. He’s tired.

Tom asks softly, "How long have you been working for Logan?"

Greg doesn’t lift his head. He audibly exhales against the side window. "Tom, it’s not what you think. I don’t want you to think I got the job because of who my grandpa is. That wasn’t the case. Logan hates my grandpa. I need you to know that. I didn't have anywhere else to go. You understand, don’t you?”

He doesn’t understand at all, but he pushes on. "What was the job?”

“It was this and that. Juggling, mostly. I could, y’know— I could do five medium-sized watermelon at a time. That was my go-to. Then, maybe three empty wine bottles. Any more than three and I just make a mess. You wanna see?”

“No, no. That’s— that’s fine, you don’t have to... do that." There aren't any bottles in the car for him to juggle. "Where did you say you worked? What, uh, what division?”

“Entertainment. Circuses.”

“You worked at the circus. As in, you were a part of the circus troupe.”

“Mhm.”

“Were you there when it caught fire?”

He’s quiet for a while. Tom looks over at him to see if he’s asleep. His eyes are shut, but he answers, “Yes.”

“Where did you go, after?”

“Nowhere after. Just here.”

"Why'd you come to me for this case?"

"I told you. You know some things,” Greg explains, lifting and dropping his shoulder like a spasm. He looks over at Tom, his beady round eyes catching the gleam of passing neon lights. “You're gonna help. Kendall doesn’t belong in jail. You'll understand. It’s - It’s important that everybody just understands.”

Tom feels as though he’s made a terrible mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

"Clearly, he's lying."

"Shiv, I don’t— I'm not so sure. I mean, he hasn't done anything, you know?" Tom explains, "I’m getting the sense that he may not be anything more than a - a boring ol’ chump trying to get by in life, same as the next boring chump you’d find out there on the streets."

Blowing cigarette smoke out the side of her mouth, Shiv barely conceals a look of reproof. She's seated with one foot up, knee bent, on the paisley settee bench of the hotel room where she arranged that they meet in the middle of the work day. Tom half-sits against the dresser by the door. They've never worked together outside of the context of their relationship, so Tom doesn't know what to expect. Shiv appears wholly unbothered.

She says, "Aren't detectives supposed to be skeptical? Do that. You've spent what—a couple hours with him? There's something there, Tom. Don't be so sentimental about it."

"Sentimental?"

"Have you gotten those documents from him at least?"

"No. No, not yet," he answers, eyes to the floor. When he helped Greg to the bed in his guest room the night before, he had a chance to take it. He didn't. "I’ll get them today. I will.”

"You said you lost him this morning," she inquires flatly.

"He left a note before he went out. I'm not overly worried. I'm sure he only went home to freshen up." 

Shiv appraises him with an unreadable expression, eyes narrowing. She stubs out her cigarette against the ashtray and comes to a stand. "I've gotta get back to work. So do you."

She crosses the room and stops once she's in his space. She brings her hands up to tighten his tie with gentle hands that hearken back to a time long-past. She gives off a scent different from how Tom remembers it, which is a surprise.

"Keep an eye on him, Detective,” she says.

Tom watches her leave. As she pulls the door open, she adds, "And stop acting like nobody's ever lied to you before."

Greg shows up at his office, strolling in casually as though it’s just another day at work. After meeting with Shiv, Tom had instructed him to come as soon as possible. That was over two hours ago.

When Greg settles into the seat across from him, Tom notices that he’s wearing the same ragged overcoat and trousers from the day before. He doesn't comment on it, although it's distracting how ill-fitting the whole ensemble is. He doesn't notice the stormy expression on Greg's face until Greg says, “You know, that wasn't so above board. What you did last night."

"Huh?"

"If you wanted to know something about me, you could ask. Without doing all that. You know that, right?"

There's hurt in his eyes. Tom reminds himself that it’s an act. None of this is real. Tom is hit with a wave of regret, regardless. "I'm sorry, Greg. You're right. You're absolutely right.”

Greg sits there with that wounded look and those quivering blue eyes. Tom thinks quickly and adds, “I needed to know that I can trust you."

"Do you? Now that you know what you know?"

Tom laughs, "Of course. In fact, I was thinking: since you're out of a job, how would you like to work for me? Alongside me, on your case. I could use the help. You bring in what you know and I'll teach you how to use it. I’ll teach you everything I know.”

"Really?"

"Sure. What do you say?"

"Well, I say yes," he answers with a shrug and a smile. They shake hands over Tom's desk, then get to work. Their deal earns Tom access to the documents that Greg keeps hidden in an inner coat pocket.

Hunched over his desk, Tom flips through the pile. "This is a fair amount of paperwork, that's for sure." 

It's all very familiar, but not entirely. The bulk of it predates his own employment at the company and relates to the food department, which he had nothing to do with. He expects to find mugshots and blood-splattered note cards, but it's all letterheads and signatures. None of it follows a linear narrative or consistent timeline. There are nondisclosure agreements, invoices, and dry correspondences, and they appear innocuous enough. 

"Here's what we're going to do... you take this half," Tom passes him a sizeable pile of papers, "and I'll take the other. Write down names that show up. And titles, if you can. And anything that looks important. Take the reception room. The desk is yours to use."

"Isn't your, uh... What time does your secretary come in?"

"Later this afternoon. Don't worry about it." He's never had a secretary. It's unimportant.

Tom recalls The New York Mail having written an article on labor conditions at a handful of food processing warehouses. The article included a few less than subtle suggestions that a Waystar-owned property was packing its factory workers into the meat grinders. Logan did a lot of public hand-waving in response, loudly accusing the Pierces of sensationalism and communism. The company narrowly avoided legal action from the FDA and the Pierces. Nothing ever came of it afterwards, as far as Tom understood at the time.

On his desk, he's gathered a small set of notices from the Department of Labor regarding unsafe work conditions. From what Tom knows of the few fatalities that occurred during his employment, the causes of death do match up with the reported safety violations. But that's not news. That's not even interesting. Tom puts those notices in the discard pile.

What catches his eye is a letter with a photograph paper-clipped to the back. The letter is typed on a simple white sheet of paper and signed by a name unfamiliar to Tom. 

The sender of the letter describes having found a foreign object in a tube of ground meat. Tom looks closely at the photograph of said object. It shows a circular metal ring. The edges are lined with intricate ridges and in the middle of the band is a continuous pattern of figure eights. On a whim, he retrieves Elliott Sutherland's file from his desk drawer. He flips through the papers in the folder to find a copy of an image that Mary gave him: his wedding ring. He puts the photos side by side. They're an exact match.

"What is it?" Greg asks him, watching his face.

"I think— I think I know what happened."

"Happened? What do you...? What?”

Tom takes a yellow form from his desk drawer. "I want you to run to the telegraph office for me, send this out. You know that case I mentioned? The one before yours. I think I've cracked it. I want the victim's wife to know. Mary Sutherland." He finishes filling out the telegram form, folds it in half, and hands it to Greg. "Then hurry back, because I know what our next move is going to be."

"You got it," Greg says. He wanders out the door.

Tom feels a rush course through him. He was ready to give up on the Sutherland case, and now the answers have fallen into his lap. Then another idea comes to him. He takes a few choice documents from the disarray covering his desk, then places them in a manila envelope. He takes a modest amount, not enough for Greg to notice but enough to satisfy Shiv’s request. He stows the envelope away in a filing cabinet drawer. Tom is about to have the biggest payday of his life.

\---

On the way down the street, Greg wraps his coat tighter around his middle. It’s gloomy, a strong wind corralling dark clouds over the city skyline. He wonders if it'll rain tonight. When he pauses at a street corner, a car stops in front of him and its door swings open. No one comes out.

Greg steps back and bends down, curious. He finds Gerri Kellman seated on the far end of the backseat bench of the coupe. With an expectant look, she motions for him to join her, so he does. When the car starts moving, she comments, "You're a little far from home."

"I've been out. Running errands."

Gerri has always intimidated Greg. He’s seen her command entire rooms without a word. All it takes is a look. The corner of her mouth lifts slightly, eyes lowered. Greg reads it as admonishment. In fact, he recognizes this entire situation as a form of admonishment. He knows he's in trouble.

"No one's noticed that you haven't been around."

"I know," he answers. "Are you taking me to my uncle Logan?"

"Why, do you need a ride?" She lights a cigarette, then offers him one. He shakes his head no. Shutting her cigarette case with a snap, she says, "He doesn’t know you took anything from the office. I doubt he ever will, unless anyone brings it to his attention."

"So, is this, uh...? Is this a threat? Or - or a warning?”

"I’m not here to interfere. Just to inform. There's a new job for you." Gerri keeps her eyes to the front of the car, suggesting a desire to get to her destination, although they’re apparently circling the block.

"I'm not really interested in the kind of jobs that they want me to do."

"You wouldn't be a circus barker this time.” She slips a business card from her handbag and hands it to him. “Call this number tomorrow. They’ll know your name.”

With that, the car pulls over and the driver deposits him out onto the street before Greg can get a word in. As the car drives away, Greg stands there on the sidewalk and looks down at the business card in his hand. The card is simple with a phone number and extension printed beneath a delicate etching of a rose on its side. There is no name or company listed. Greg places it in his coat's inner pocket, then carries on toward the telegraph office.

\---

Tom’s professional and personal ties with the Pierce family were never strong or positive, to say the least. But he knows their politics. He highly doubts that he can convince any one of the Pierces to take on an exposé aimed at their own rivals. They have a white-knuckled grasp on journalistic integrity and values. They’re not the type to enter a dung-flinging match. 

With this in mind, it’s all the more reason for them to meet with the Pierce family. It is a show of effort for Greg’s benefit. And a fantastic opportunity for a new suit.

Tom, before everything, had monthly rituals. He used to leave Shiv at home and hit the town. He’d make extravagant purchases at some of his favorite places, simply for his own pleasure. Not only was it a time for him to relax, but he saw it as a form of self-improvement. There was always room for more. Even better, he did that because he could afford to. Soon enough, he'll be able to afford it anytime he wants. Sitting among the mirrored walls of his once-favored tailor, it‘s nearly perfect. If only Greg would stop moving.

“Let the man do his job, Greg,” Tom sighs from across the room as he watches him fret. Charlie is doing his level best trying to measure Greg’s endless legs in one go. “Just stand still.”

“Sorry, I just— uh, I’ll try.”

Greg stands uncomfortably undressed down to his undershirt and pants. He holds himself as though he’s never been measured for a suit before. 

Tom takes in Greg’s appearance from out of the corner of his eye. Just as he expected, the cut of Greg’s clothing do his unique frame a disservice. Greg is a physical anomaly. He's nearly as tall as the height of a common doorway, but his silhouette is impossibly elegant. His chest and forearms are slightly built from labor, but the rest of him is whipcord thin and long. The length of his legs make up more than half of him. His hands, the size of dinner plates, flutter at his sides. He is bursting with pent-up nervous energy. Perhaps against his own will, Greg dodges the tailor’s measuring tape once more. Tom wants to stand next to him, maybe even hold him down. He stays where he is. 

Eyes wary, Greg says to Tom, “I don’t actually— This seems like... I don’t need new clothes, do I?”

He barks out a laugh. “Absolutely you do. And— Oh, think nothing of the cost, if that's what you're worried about. It’s on me. I’ll file it as a work expense.”

“You can do that?”

“Sure can."

"What's all this for? What are we dressing up for?"

"We have a meeting with Naomi Pierce tonight. Her family owns the company that owns The Mail. Her family's money goes back even further than the Roy's.”

"We need an evening suit for this meeting?"

"It's not a meeting," Tom admits, eyeing the silk handkerchief in his hands. "It's a black tie event."

\---

The starchy, pristine stiffness of the new suit draws his shoulders back and his chin up. Greg catches sight of himself in the mirror of the Pierce estate hall and squints at the stark blackness of his jacket and slacks. All around him, there is a cacophony of people made up of clean, straight lines and, when Greg steps deeper into the crowd, he disappears in it. He weaves through the din and fog and locates Tom easily, well-acquainted now with the distinct melody of his voice and sway of his arms. 

Greg hands him a glass, and Tom cheerfully exclaims, "Oh, my trusty assistant! Wonderful. Greg, I'd like you to meet my dear friend Preston Banes. He handles the books for Kingsley Pharmaceuticals."

Mr. Preston Banes is a sleight, bespectacled man in his late 30s, trendy and neat. He extends a hand in greeting. "How do you do?"

"I'm well," Greg says, shaking his hand. "Are you, uh, close to the Pierce family?"

"I recently made acquaintance with Naomi Pierce while I was vacationing out in the Swiss Alps. I was just telling—" he presses his lips together, chin pointed in Tom’s direction, "—Pardon me, remind me of your name again?"

Tom laughs raucously. Greg looks to Preston who holds an uneasy line between his brows. Tom’s laughter subsides and there's a brief moment of silence.

"Tom," he supplies quickly. "Tom Wambsgans."

"Of course. I was just telling Mr. Wambsgans of how Naomi and I embarked on a hiking excursion up into the mountains. We had climbed so high that we made it up above the clouds."

"Did the altitude pose any difficulty?" Greg asks.

"Sorry?"

"The altitude. In the— You know, up in the mountains."

"Greg, how about you find yourself a plate of lamb shank," Tom cuts in, hand squeezing in pulses against Greg's upper arm. They meet eyes with one another and Tom projects a threatening look that belies his cordial grin. Greg breaks off from the two and makes himself scarce near the bar.

Over a handful of canapés, Greg watches Tom mill about the room from afar. Tom shakes many hands and flutters from one corner to the next in rapid succession. It's very much like a dance, the manic flow similar to his grandiose display at the restaurant the night before. However, the ebb and flow of Tom and the crowd suggests an artistic interpretation of a bear in a pool of salmon. The salmon are slippery and fast. Tom is not a salmon. An hour passes, and Greg sees that, as the intensity of Tom's movement grows more erratic, his eyes lose a certain sheen. His grin, however, stretches wider.

Tom lands within earshot when a petite older woman places a slender hand on Tom's forearm, a friendly gesture. She has sandy-blond hair and a minimalism to her appearance that stands in contrast with the crowd.

"Tom Wambsgans," she says warmly.

"My goodness," Tom exclaims as they meet for a half-embrace that's mostly a lean. "Rhea Jarrell! I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"I would say the same to you. Do the Roys know you're here, schmoozing with the enemy? Don't tell me you've switched sides." She speaks with humor and a twinkle in her eye.

"No, no. Nothing more than a social call. As you know, you and I have many mutual friends."

"If it's Naomi you're looking for tonight, I should warn you that she's not so keen on being juiced for information."

"I would never," he chuckles. "I'd never dream of coming to a fine party like this with any sort of ulterior motive!"

"Oh, you're right. Silly me getting my wires crossed. You'll have to forgive me. It’s just that I've never met a milk carton out of the Roy family dumpsters that didn't lobby for nuclear weapons afterwards." Rhea Jarell smiles, but her voice is low, barely audible to Greg, when she says, "But you're more of a headless rocking horse, aren't you. Ridden to pieces."

She presses a sympathetic hand to the side of his arm, the gesture incongruous with the edge of her words. Tom stands stock still, his smile wavering.

"Keep neighing, little horse. You'll get your glue one day." Then she walks off, waving with a flourish of her fingers.

Tom watches her walk away. Then, without a hitch, he picks up his shoulders and moves through the room as he did before. Greg takes a glass flute of champagne from a waiter’s tray on his way to where Tom is standing. Greg meets him in the middle of the room and puts the glass in Tom’s hand.

"What’s buzzin’, cousin?" Tom chirps merrily.

"Everything alright?" 

"Sure! Stupendous here, isn't it?"

Greg wants to take his arm and drag him out the door. He wants to take Tom away from this place. Never come back. He keeps his hands at his sides. They have a job to do. "Any luck locating Naomi?"

Tom downs the glass of champagne and says, "Most certainly. What are detectives for?"

Naomi Pierce has a soothing presence. The party around them fades away into the background as they sit in a corner with her. She regards Tom with a steady expression, her eyes narrowed and her mouth in a straight line. There's open contempt there, which Greg appreciates seeing in contrast with the airy and amiable facade of the other partygoers.

"That trail has run cold a couple years now," she tells them. "There's not much chance of bringing it up again without exhuming long-buried memories for a lot of people. It's a long list of families who lost their husbands, sons, or fathers to so-called faulty machinery. There's not much more that can be said there."

Tom agrees while lighting a cigarette. "Sure. And from what I can tell, there's quite a bit of red tape halting further reporting on it."

"That's right."

Greg shakes his head, disliking the direction the conversation is taking. "But this isn't isolated to a single year. There’s more to it, especially now."

"Is there?" Naomi remarks, disinterested.

Greg presses on, "Could you tell us? I mean, I won't ask you to tell us more than you're allowed. I'd like to know what you personally saw— Or, uh, were you involved in the reporting at all?"

"Not officially, no. I left the reporting to the professionals.”

“Then, what was your involvement?”

“I took care of a lot of the victims’ families on my own, helped them manage the stress that came with the trauma they were facing."

"What does that mean?" Greg asks, curious. He doesn't understand those words in this context.

"The most I could do was provide secure shelter for them. And listen to their stories and what they're feeling. It's hard enough losing a loved one. I know that much. But compounded with the fact that they were never given straight answers as to what happened—or even a body to grieve over? These people needed answers. They needed peace of mind. And Waystar punished them for that, over and over again.”

That's where the sharpness in her eyes comes from. It's her anger, ever-simmering below the surface. Righteous anger. Greg had forgotten what that looked like on a person. The realization weighs down on him. Old memories flood in like a blow to the chest.

"What's this case to you, anyway?" Naomi asks, "Why's it so important, years after the fact?"

Unable to speak over the pounding in his chest, Greg lets Tom answer for him. He focuses on the shape of Tom's words, barely comprehending any of it. He feels the beginning of a flopsweat prickle at his senses. He unbuttons his sleeves and loosens his tie, letting some air in. He breathes.

"You alright?" Naomi leans toward Greg. She promptly waves a waiter over, who fetches Greg a shot of brandy. She watches him closely, and he wishes she wouldn't. He takes the shot of brandy, hoping it'll be enough to let this moment pass.

“You’ll have to excuse my friend here,” Tom chuckles awkwardly. “He’s not used to being out in society.”

Naomi points to Greg’s hand and asks softly, "Could I take a look?"

"Um," Greg flusters. He nods.

She reaches over and takes his left hand, palm up. With gentle hands, she brings his sleeve up to expose the healing skin on his wrist. It's scabbed, red, and ugly. "You got burned. You were there?"

He nods again.

She lets go of Greg’s hand. “You’re looking for answers too, huh?” 

“A lot of good people died in that fire,” he says. “A lot of my friends.”

Naomi hums in thought, her head tilting to the side. “On the level, I’d like nothing more than to help Kendall. I believe him. But as a board member of PGM, I can’t be attached to this piece. That being said—” She throws back the rest of her drink, then sets the empty glass on the table. “And this is off the record, but I know of an affiliate that could use a Hail Mary like this. A little off-shoot of the New York Enquirer would be willing to throw stones at Waystar or die trying. There’s substantial footwork you’ve gotta put in before you come to them with this.”

“Such as?” Tom asks.

“You need to be able to convince at least one of the witnesses to come forward again. Preferably one of those women that Waystar brushed under a rug.”

Greg blinks, asking, “How? How would we even start?”

“You want to speak to Martha O’Malley. You get to her and the rest will follow. Back when the case was gathering traction, she nearly managed to rally a whole group against Waystar. But eventually, she caved after months of undergoing the brunt of the company's wrath. She moved to the Catskills with her son. She won’t be an easy find, because she doesn’t want to be found. But there’s a chance she’ll want to talk to you.”


	3. Chapter 3

Tom wakes up in the backseat of the coupe. He had fallen asleep on the long ride home. When he looks out the window, he recognizes the streets and buildings; they're close to his apartment. Greg is still there beside him, quiet but alert. The dim gray streetlights offer glimpses of the line of his lips pressed together in thought.

Tom runs the plan through his head. In the morning, Tom will tell Greg that a newspaper agreed to take the investigation off their hands. Job done, case closed. He’d probably have to fire him, too. But it was never an official deal to begin with. It’s fine. Tom only feels disappointed that it’s ended so soon.

“We should stop somewhere before I drive you home,” Tom suggests, his voice coming out deep from sleep. He tries again, higher pitched this time: “The night is still young.”

“Mm, I don't know. It’s been a long day.”

“Come on. I want to take you somewhere."

Greg peers at him with dark eyes, face tilted away from the light. Sometimes, he's unrecognizable to Tom, the shadows in his face intriguingly kaleidoscopic. Slowly, he nods.

They change back into their plainclothes at Tom's apartment, then Tom drives them to one of his favorite drug-stores. As much as he loves attending chic parties, what invariably follows is a long process of winding down. The chatter of the crowd stays with Tom in his mind and it stays loud for a long time. It’s better to have quiet company, afterwards. Better than dealing with it on his own.

At the drug-store counter, Greg insists that he's perfectly happy with a cherry coke, but Tom cons him into accepting spoonfuls from his chocolate sundae. At this time of night on a weekday, no one else is around. They sit at the empty counter surrounded by tall glass jars of things and plastic-wrapped boxes stacked on shelves. 

“I saw you talking to a woman today,” Greg says.

Tom laughs. “I was talking to a lot of women today. No need for jealousy, big fella. There’s enough of me to go around.” He bumps his shoulder against Greg’s, playfully. That earns him a bashful smile.

“No, but um,” Greg continues, idly pushing the straw in his drink down when it keeps floating up. “I think her name was Rhea Jarrell?”

“Sure. What about her?”

“The way she spoke to you. She was being unkind, I think.”

“Rhea? No, she wasn’t. She’s chief executive of PGM. She’s a big deal in the reporting business.”

Greg turns his head and informs him: “Someone can be all those things and still be unkind.”

“So?”

Greg blinks like a lightbulb flickering, stormy and malcontent. Then his expression dampens. He asks, “We’re going tomorrow, right? To find that woman, like Naomi said?”

"Ahh, I'm not so sure about that one.”

"Why’s that?"

Tom scoffs, "We can’t blindly follow some coordinates given to us by some dame at a party.”

“She’s not some dame, though. You were the one who arranged to meet with her in the first place.”

“Look, Greg. I know the business and I know what’s real and what’s not. Just follow my lead.”

“I don't understand. Isn't this our best chance?"

“Let's discuss this tomorrow morning. How about you leave those papers with me. I can get a headstart by taking them into the New York Journal offices early in the morning to see if they'll bite."

Greg gives him a troubled look. "We'll talk tomorrow," he says. He gets up and makes his way out the door without looking back.

Tom sighs, unsettled by what may have been the last words they'll say to each other. Tomorrow morning, he'll give Shiv his packet of documents and everything he knows about him. It's none of Tom's business what she decides to do with it. All he knows is that it won't be good for Greg.

He stops into his office building instead of going directly home. He needs to get his head on straight. He resolves to get the day's events down on paper and decide on what he’ll tell Shiv. He never got a response from Mary Sutherland, but he’s certain she’ll contact him by the end of tomorrow.

He’s scarcely written his first sentence before the sound of someone whistling from the reception room catches his attention. He recognizes the tune as the old waltz "Three O'Clock in the Morning" and the sound of it grows nearer. It can’t be Shiv; she isn’t one to whistle, especially not a waltz. Immediately on high alert, he retrieves his revolver from his desk drawer, then stands against the wall by his office door. He listens and waits. The intruder’s footsteps halt on the other side of the door. After much rattling and clanging, the doorknob drops onto the floor and the intruder hisses profanity. Soon after, the door swings open and a man walks in. Tom smacks the butt of his revolver right into the back of the intruder’s head with a solid thump.

The intruder lets out a yelp and falls forward onto the floor. Tom gets a good look at his face and recognizes him immediately: “Roman Roy.”

“Cheap fucking move, Wambsgans. _Christ_.” Roman rasps from the floor while clutching the back of his head.

“I take it you didn’t get the notice for our abbreviated walk-in hours,” Tom quips flatly. He offers a hand to bring Roman to his feet.

“Sure, recognize how little walking in I just did.”

“What’re you doing here?”

“If you should know,” he dusts himself off and runs a hand through his hair, answering tartly, “I’m here on my own business. And none of yours.” Roman struts behind Tom’s desk, elbows out, looking like an amorous rooster as he picks at stacks of paper and pulls at drawer handles.

“It must be something important if it’s you here and not some paid flunky.”

“Look at you! Detecting shit. Tell me, when you took your little private dick correspondence course, at what point did they have to break it to you that it wasn’t about cock and balls?”

Tom stands at his desk and picks up the phone receiver. “I should just turn you over to the law.”

“Turn me—?” Roman lets out a titter. “Sounds like you’re forgetting that we practically own the police. Go ahead, ring ‘em up. Let's get old Leo over here from the station and we’ll make a party of it. You’ve got enough booze here for half the precinct.”

“You’re right, I’m better off calling Logan. Or Shiv. Tell her what a botched job you did on picking the lock on my door.”

“Nope, nope. Let’s not do that, no.” Roman rushes over and presses a hand down on the switch hook of the telephone cradle. “How about we not call anyone?”

“Then, what is it you're after, Roman?"

“You have something my dad might be interested in. I figure I could get it for him.”

“So, this is you, asking for what exactly?”

“The documents. The ones that Shiv has you going after? Look, I know that either you or Cousin Greg have ‘em, alright? I figured I’d try asking you—I don’t know—politely. You wouldn’t go for being persuaded through violence and I know I wouldn’t have heard the end of it from Shiv, so here I am, you know, asking. Nicely.”

“In that case, I’m informing you nicely that I don’t have it.”

“No?”

Tom shakes his head.

Roman gives a put-out groan, scratching the back of his head and plopping down onto the seat opposite of the desk. “It’s fine. That’s fine. My guy is probably beating the papers out of Greg right about now. How long d’you think he’ll hold out?”

“He—what?”

He crows in laughter, feet up on the table, “If you ask me, he looks the type to snap in half like a twig if you shove him hard enough.”

“Greg,” Tom mutters as he rushes out the door.

The first thing he spots is the shape of him on the dirty pavement in an alley, facedown and backlit by the headlights of a police car. A uniformed police officer stands above Greg with a baton raised over his head, poised to strike him with full force. Tom curses as he stumbles out of his car and bodily lunges at the police officer, knocking him into the headlights with a crack. He hauls Greg up off the floor and directs him into his running car, then drives away. Barely at the end of the block, they hear the shriek of the police siren, so Tom steps on the gas pedal. 

“I think I just assaulted a police officer,” Tom exclaims as he barrels down the street.

Greg murmurs weakly, “He’s behind us.” 

“I know.”

“Are we gonna get away?”

“That’s— Yes, Greg. That’s the plan.” He has no idea where to go but straight. He notices Greg slumped against the side of the door with a pained expression on his face. “You alright?”

“He wanted the documents. What would a cop want with it? He didn’t appreciate that I asked.” They both duck when they hear a loud pop behind them. Greg swivels his head around and rasps, baffled, "He's shooting at us?"

"Right. The, uh, police are technically controlled by Logan Roy and the company. It's not the police who are after us. I mean, it is, but it isn’t.”

"That's not so surprising. I'm not surprised."

“Uh huh. Hold on,” Tom tells Greg. He spots the police car in his rear view mirror and maneuvers a sharp left turn, wheels screeching. 

When they level out, Greg leans forward to open the glove compartment. Tom keeps a pistol in there and sees Greg holding it up limply with a questioning look on his face.

"Easy! Easy with that thing! Don't try anything stupid."

"Wasn't gonna," Greg reassures him, putting it back and shutting the glove compartment closed. "What do we do?"

Another shot rings out. "I think there's a tire iron under your seat. Maybe we can, you know... Maybe if he runs it over, it'll slow him down."

"That's your plan?" he questions, testy now. "Why not shoot out his tires?"

"Just— I don't know. Give him the tire iron. See what happens." Tom honestly wants the conversation to end, because he's preoccupied with praying that nothing darts out in front of his car. He's gone slightly dizzy with the flashing red light of the police vehicle lighting up the otherwise dark streets. 

Greg struggles to roll down the window. Once the window is fully open, Greg fits himself through the opening like an absolute madman. He's seated on the ledge with the tire iron in hand. Tom's palms sweat against the steering wheel.

"Just keep it steady," Greg hollers. Then he hears a metallic clank and a screech. For one frightful second, he thinks Greg’s been shot. Before he composes himself enough to look over, Greg fits himself back into the passenger seat, telling him to keep moving.

"What happened? Did it work?"

In answer, a horrid crash sounds out behind them, followed by a roaring boom. Over his shoulder, Tom sees the police car wrapped around a telephone pole. Flames and black smoke shoot upward out of the body of the car.

“Tom,” Greg says, voice distant. “I think we just killed a cop.”

\---

Greg doesn’t recognize this part of the city. It looks heavily industrial with garages, warehouses, and chain-linked fences going on for miles. There’s no one around. Tom keeps driving and doesn’t stop. He hasn't said a word in a long while. 

"Where are we going?

"I don't know, I don't know,” Tom mutters. “This is really bad."

"I know."

"Do we— Do we go back and explain what happened? There must be someone..."

"Pull over here,” Greg instructs brusquely. Tom does as he says. When the car engine shuts off, Greg drills him, “Who would we talk to? Who would side with us?" 

"I think I need to call Shiv."

"What for?"

His eyes fall to his lap. "To, uh... She— No, nothing."

"I think— Tom, look at me. We've gotta be smart about what to do next, because this can get really bad. My thinking is, we can clear everything up once we finish investigating this case. Expose Waystar for what it is. I don't think we can trust anyone here. We can only trust people who know the truth, like Martha O'Malley and the rest of the people whose names are on these documents. We can't stay in the city and we can't be seen by the police. So, we should just go, shouldn't we?"

"No, you're right. You're right."

"Let's go then. To the Catskills."

“Right now?”

“Right now."

By the light of a flickering orange street lamp, they locate the coordinates from Naomi on a fold-out map. The location appears to be deep in the woods, far from civilization. Greg guides Tom northwards and they’re on their way. The path they outlined on the map is simple enough, if not long and winding. If they keep driving without stopping, they could possibly make it by daybreak.

"Greg?"

Greg folds the map down messily into his lap. "Huh?"

"Light me a cigarette, will you?" Tom asks, holding out his own packet. 

Greg takes a cigarette from the pack and puts it in his mouth. With his lighter raised, he meets eyes with Tom who watches him with an unreadable expression. For a moment, Greg worries that he’s doing this the wrong way. When he doesn't receive any objection from Tom, he lights it. He takes a drag, then passes it to him. Tom accepts it without a word. He wonders if this is something expected of him as Tom's apprentice. He wonders if they're friends.

On the edge of town, a rough patch of road causes the car to rumble horribly. It puts a sharp pain in Greg’s injured side. He hisses, reflexively bringing his hand to the source of the pain.

Tom asks, "What did he do to you? Are you badly hurt?"

"No, it’s fine. I just— I disturbed an old injury is all. I'm going to rest for a little while. I think, um. It should be a straight shot from here. For maybe a few hours? You can wake me if you need directions."

"Sure. That should be fine."

Greg looks out the window and focuses on separating his mind from his body. Their surroundings grow greener and darker. Trees line the side of the road and Greg counts them as they pass. Greg’s eyes close and the dreams find him in his sleep. In his dream, his legs are tree roots: spindly and stiff. They hurt when he moves, like he's splintering the wood with each movement. He pushes through hot, gelatinous mud and the mud sucks him in deeper until he's up to his neck in it. He gags on the pungent smell, because the mud isn't mud, but heaps of sour rotting flesh. The maggoty flesh pulses against his own, constricting and crushing. It's hot like fire and he's enveloped in it now. He's choking on the towering muck of screaming, screaming, screaming.

Then he wakes up, gasping for air with quick painful inhales. He's in the car with Tom and it's still dark out. The cigarette in Tom’s mouth has barely burnt through an inch of its length.

"Sorry," Greg mutters. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"What happened?" Tom asks quietly.

He feels pins and needles in his arms and legs, so he flexes them out. "I get nightmares sometimes."

"So do I, but that's not what mine ever sound like."

His body feels like a cage, and his insides strain against its confines. He takes slow breaths of air, letting the rumbling of the car engine fill the space. The moment passes, and he asks, "Do you want me to take over driving for a while?"

"You know how to drive?"

"No."

"We'll pull over. I'm beat. We can both rest."

Tom parks on the side of the road and all goes quiet, save for the crickets chirping in the field beside them. Greg opens the car door and lets his feet touch solid ground. The night air's chill clears his head and cools the sweat that’s gathered against his hairline. He feels a delirious relief wash over him, like feeling a fever finally break. 

Behind him, he hears Tom settle into the backseat. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Tom take off his shoes, neatly untying the laces. The gesture has an odd innocence to it. A comfort. It feels important, the way that it makes him feel.

Greg turns, only slightly. "Tom?"

"Hm?”

When Tom lifts his head, a rectangle of light through the windshield illuminates his features. His long lashes catch the light and his eyes are soft and warm. When Greg first saw him, he thought of him as severe and plain. But he sees him now and knows that he's neither of those things. Greg looks away, facing the field again.

"Thank you," he says. "For coming back for me." He feels Tom’s eyes on him, so he waits and waits.

Tom answers, quiet and even, "Goodnight, Greg."

"G'night, Tom."

When Tom falls asleep, Greg gets out of the car and stands in the tall grass for a while. They’re far off from the city now, so he can see the stars clearly. To him, they’ve always looked the same. Unchangeable, at times disappointingly so. He wonders if the stars look back at the Earth and feel disappointed with its people, too.

It’s quiet and still where they are, not a single car on the road. The wind pulls through the thick acres of trees, the leaves rattling like ocean waves. 

\---

In the morning, they stop into a greasy lunch-counter off the road for some ham and eggs. Tom feels no better than before he slept. He's got an ache in his lower back and a crick in the side of his neck. His eyes are shot to hell. He watches, bleary-eyed, as Greg devours food beside him. Greg eats hunched over the counter, barely chewing between bites. Tom only laughs, feeling crazed.

In the parking lot, Tom runs his fingers over a bullet hole left in the frame of his sedan. The hole is high up. If it was aimed more to the right, he could have been shot in the back of the head. He’s never been shot at before.

Greg lingers behind him, silently standing in attendance. Tom could feel him there without needing to turn his head. His presence is like a shroud. Like a great big sheet. Tom says, "We might be a few days out. Do you need to make a call to anyone back home?"

"No," Greg answers.

Tom takes a moment to consider it himself. He thinks of his blank little rented apartment. He thinks of his empty, old office space. He thinks of Shiv. He decides, "Me neither."

Not that far down the road, a bright red Pontiac appears from out of nowhere. It cuts them off, and Tom hits the brakes. He figures it’s some rowdy kid behind the wheel until the car falls back and comes neck-and-neck with his own. The passenger side window is rolled down and someone is shouting from it and, of course, it’s goddamn Roman Roy.

Unwilling to make another car chase out of this spectacle, Tom pulls over at once. 

“What are you doing?” Greg asks, alarmed.

“It’s your cousin,” Tom explains, getting out of the car. Greg follows him out and they circle around to stand behind the car. Another car rolls up behind them, which means they’re more or less surrounded. Roman and three dour-faced men advance upon them.

“Is this necessary?” Tom asks. He’s unsure what measures any of them are about to take. He can imagine that the car explosion from the day before was a bit of an escalation marker. And they were already getting shot at at that time.

Roman says, “Honestly, I don’t have the brain power to do intimidation right now. I don’t know. Oh, blah blah nobody move, break your fingers, and so on.”

“Greg, this is Roman. He put that cop on you yesterday.”

“The cop is dead, by the way,” Roman informs them. “Stand still for a sec? They want to take a look inside your car. They wouldn’t shut up about it the whole ride here." He signals for the burly men to move in.

"Put your hands up," a wide man with a garishly striped tie and a gravelly voice instructs. His whole get-up is effectively threatening. "Both of ya." 

Tom puts his hands up as the trio swarm his car. “It’s unlocked.” He senses Greg getting agitated next to him and hopes he doesn’t do anything rash.

“So, Tom, after you ran out the door last night, I found your little reserve of papers back at your office. Handed them over to my dad. And you know..." Roman lifts his shoulders. "Busted. I'm not here of my own accord this time. This time, it's orders from Logan. See these guys? I don't even know what they’re up to over there. But I hear they're pieces of shit, so.” Roman's point is punctuated by the sound of fabric tearing. One of the large men is tearing apart the interior of Tom's car.

Tom winces.

“See, it’s completely out of my hands," Roman giggles. "We've been sent to bring you two home."

The man in a bowler hat gets real curious about Greg and invades his personal space. The top of his head doesn't reach the height of Greg's shoulders, but the height difference doesn't deter him. 

"Take it easy," Tom warns under his breath. He's not fully certain who it’s intended for: the man in the hat, Greg, or himself.

The man grabs Greg's wrist and Greg pulls back with equal force. Greg gets a nasty shove in return. Like lightning, Greg decks the man in the face. Tom barely processes the move before the man in the striped tie runs in and holds Greg's arms while Bowler Hat socks him in the stomach. Tom puts Bowler Hat into a chokehold from behind, but it's short-lived as the third muscle knocks them to the floor. Tom is engaged in a scuffle on the ground with the two of them, but it comes to a halt when a gunshot rings out.

_BANG_

Tom looks to where Roman is, but Roman is standing frozen and wide-eyed. His eyes are on Greg. In Greg's hand is a smoking gun. Tom immediately recognizes it as his own, taken from his car. The man in the striped tie drops to the floor, narrowly missing where Tom is seated on the ground. He's dead, shot through the heart.

Tom clamors away from the body and stands behind Greg, who has the pistol trained on the remaining two muscles. The men have their hands raised, fear in their eyes. 

"You're gonna let us go," Greg demands. "And you're not going to follow us anymore. Tell Logan that it's off."

From where he stands, Greg shoots out one tire from each of the cars in two clean shots. His precision is startling. They get into the sedan and drive away. 

\---

Greg coughs against the back of his hand and it comes away with a pink tint of blood. It's worrying, but he knows he'll be fine. He focuses on breathing against the pain. According to the map, they don't have much further to go. 

As soon as Greg feels some glimmer of optimism, the engine sputters, then dies out completely. Tom curses under his breath, turning the key in the ignition repeatedly. They’re alone on a stretch of road.

"We can walk,” Greg suggests. “We can get there inside of a day, easy." 

“Walk,” Tom echoes, incredulous. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

Greg gets out of the car without a word. Tom follows suit. After some negotiating, Greg convinces Tom to maneuver his car behind a thicket off the road.

"We'll come back for it," Tom says, more a reassurance to himself than anything. He takes his jacket off and places it in the car. Greg leaves his on and starts walking.

"We should stay by the road," Tom implores, feet firm on the asphalt. "If we get lost in those woods, we'll never find our way."

Already several feet deep off the road and into the woods, Greg argues, "It's a shorter trip if we go through instead of around."

"I'm not dying in the woods."

"You're right, you won't. I can follow a map."

"Sure you can."

"It's this way." 

Greg walks deeper into the shrubbery, satisfied by the sound of Tom’s footsteps behind him. As they step through and around plant life and thick jagged rocks, Greg feels the adrenaline wear off and the tenderness in his middle gnaw at his nerves. It hurts. He could feel himself dragging lower to the ground. The ground beneath his feet tilts, but he shakes it off and steadies his balance. That extra effort knocks the wind of him, so he stops walking to bend forward and catch his breath. His shirt sticks to his skin, and he’s unsure if it’s from sweat or blood.

Tom stands by him, cautiously. He’s got his eyes trained on everywhere but Greg. “I nearly forgot that we’ve gone into autumn," he says. "You tend to forget when you're in the city for so long."

Indeed, the greenery around them is healthy and rich from the past wet summer, but it’s cold under the shade of the trees. Greg manages to respond, "It’s cooled down considerably since August.”

The chorus of birds and bugs set in, now that they’ve shifted their attention outwards. There’s much activity in the woods, just beyond what they can see.

"Tom," Greg says. He straightens out his spine, his ribs begrudging him for it. He breathes against the pain, hardening himself for the conversation to come. "What did Roman mean when he said he found papers in your office? How did - how did you know to come find me last night?”

Tom's posture stiffens. “Before I went looking for you, Roman came in. He told me that you were in trouble.”

“Why would he tell you that?”

“He was— I don’t know. It was a sort of bragging. He was looking for the documents.”

“I have all the documents.”

“Right. Except—” Tom dropped his chin, guilty. “Except, you don’t. Because I took some.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because I was paid to, alright?" he answers, shrill. "Someone hired me to collect intel and take the documents from you.”

“Who did? Roman?”

“No. Shiv.”

“Shiv." He freezes, feeling his heart sink in his chest. "Your ex-wife. And you agreed to do it.”

“It hardly matters anymore, does it? It’s busted all to hell now.” He speaks louder, defensive, “Besides, I’m not the one who just killed a man. We should be talking about you. Whoever the hell you are. What are you? Some sort of trained assassin?”

“No, that’s not who I am,” he argues. He leaves it at that, because the pain in his side feels like a tightening knot.

“How many people have you killed before?”

“I don’t know,” Greg replies. It would be worse if he had a number to give. “But - but, I’m not— Can we just— I think there’s something wrong. I need you to check something for me. And there’s, uh. Just take a look at my side. Can you do that... for me?”

“What do you need me to do?”

Unbuttoning his shirt, he says, “Check for anything sticking out the wrong way, or - or blood? I don’t know.” Greg lifts his undershirt so that Tom can see the side that’s bothering him. 

Tom immediately swears, “Jesus Christ, Greg.”

“What is it?”

“Where do you want me to start?” Tom is standing close enough that Greg can feel his body warmth radiating against his exposed skin. “There’s... I mean, you’ve got one heck of a dark mark on your back. From the cop’s baton, I’m guessing? Then some on your front. Newer-looking. Maybe from the guys out on the road today. And then there’s this...” Tom runs the gentle pad of his thumb across the skin under his ribs. The touch feels like a balm itself, smooth against Greg’s side. 

“The scar?”

Tom nods.

“It’s old. I haven’t— Tom, I haven’t killed people for no reason,” he explains. “You understand that at least, don’t you? You get it?”

“No. I’m not sure.”

Greg pulls down his shirt, restoring some space between them. “This was my ticket home,” he says, gesturing to the scar. “From overseas.”

“You fought?”

“In the Pacific, for a short time.”

His eyes flicker in thought. He states with a waver of apprehension, "You seem too young to have been in the war."

"I was," Greg replies. He continues moving forward.

The land grows steeper. They've come upon a steep incline, messy and thick with branches. Greg tests the slope by pressing his foot against it. It's not too tall; he can see the top if he stands back. He's scaled higher inclines under worse conditions before.

"Is this what we're doing?"

"I think so," Greg answers. 

They climb, mostly on all fours with the branches scraping their palms and poking into their legs. They go slowly and, for Tom, not without complaint. When they get to the top, they come to a flat clearing awash with sunlight. It's a rolling field and, some distance ahead, they see a ranch. The ranch is made up of a dark, squat house and a smattering of smaller structures around it. It stands in the distance like a quaint mirage. They walk and walk. Greg sees spots in his vision, but he carries on, regardless.

When they reach the splintered wooden fence around the perimeter of their destination, Greg feels light with relief. Then the world turns sideways, and everything goes black.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg is in a barn. He knows this because the smell reminds him of Grandpa Ewan's ranch. It's earthy and sharp. The smell of old childhood memories. The wooden-slatted ceilings are high and arched, reminiscent of a church house. His shoulders are propped up against a folded up blanket on a thin mattress. The rickety bedframe squeaks when he shifts his weight. His shirt is missing, and there’s something wet leaning against his middle. It's a wide block of ice wrapped in a dish towel. 

"Good, you're awake." Tom sits a distance away, backlit by the amber sunlight that comes through the open barn door. "The procedure was a success. Although it's a shame they couldn't salvage the leg."

Alarmed, Greg's eyes shoot downward to his legs, but Tom laughs hoarsely and uproariously.

"I'm kidding, hah! Can you imagine?" he chuckles. He leans over to pour water into a glass and hands the glass to Greg. "Here, let's get some water in you. Hydrate a little."

He drinks, and the water is unbelievably good. It's clean and chilled to a cool temperature. It somehow tastes sweet. He finishes it in one satisfying gulp. "What's going on? How long have I been out?"

"Long enough for me to get a word in with Martha. Her son looked you over in the meantime, said you'll be alright. He's the one who put that ice on you there," Tom explains, pointing towards the bundle on Greg's side. "The two of them are talking it over in the house. I don't want to be premature in my judgment, but I think we've struck some good luck here."

“You talked to her? You’re going to— You’re still with me on this case?”

“I’m still with you.”

Greg beams at him, relieved. He doesn’t know what to say, so instead, he asks, "Could I, uh— Have you seen my shirt? Anywhere?"

"Oh. Uh huh."

When Greg's got his shirt back on, a man comes into the barn. He's a hulking-looking fellow, but his eyes bear an unassuming slant as he approaches. He speaks in a deep rumble, "Tom? She's ready for you inside."

"Sure thing." Tom hops up and disappears out the door. Greg watches him go, feeling oddly bereft to be left alone with the stranger.

"How're you feeling?" the man asks with his back facing Greg. He's unscrewing a dark bottle of medicine with thick hands. Everything feels deceptively soft and warm as sunlight bleeds through the gaps between the wooden planks of the barn walls. Thin slivers of light crawl along the expanse of the man’s wide shoulders.

"Doing much better than before.”

"No kidding. There's not much more I can do for you, sorry to say. While you were out, I took a look at those injured ribs of yours.”

Greg eyes him tensely. “Find anything interesting?”

“None broken, as far as I could tell. We’ll ice it to keep the swelling down. Keep an eye on things as we go along. There's painkillers here, if you need. Painful breathing?"

Greg nods, so the man holds out the medicine bottle to shake two pills onto Greg's palm. He accepts them gratefully. "Thanks."

The man brings the chair that Tom was sitting on closer. All the while, the man studies Greg's face and Greg studies him right back. Beyond his muscular build, the man's most remarkable features are his prominent brow and bird nest-like head of hair. The man says, "I also noticed that old wound, right below your new. It's a great big crater of a scar. Could you tell me how you got it?”

"I— Well, I was shot," Greg answers, sagging where he sits. He feels cornered. When he looks up at the man, the man holds his gaze steadily. He's waiting for a better answer. Greg sighs. "I got it in the war. Years back at Guadalcanal."

"Army?"

"Marines."

The man grins as he says, "Me too. Wear it proud."

"Do you? Wear it proudly?"

He laughs silently, turning his head towards the wide open double doors of the barn. He answers with a touch of self-deprecation, "Not so much these days. I'm Jimmy, by the way."

"Greg." He shakes Jimmy’s hand.

"That piece I took off you didn't exactly look standard issue."

He kept Tom’s pistol in his coat pocket. It's nowhere in sight. “It’s not mine. Or, I found— No, you’re right. It’s - it’s not. It belongs to the, uh, the private detective I came here with, so.”

“You’re just holding onto it, then,” Jimmy supplies.

"Something like that."

"Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to hold onto it for you while you're here. From what your friend tells us, you already know what lengths my ma and I have gone to get away from all that funny business. We're going to let the two of you stay, but only as long as you keep the peace. Understood?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Alright then." 

At that moment, a strangled scream sounds out nearby. Greg's eyes go wide, but Jimmy laughs as though he’s overheard a joke. “Oh, don’t let her bother you. That’s just Barbara. The goat.”

“A goat?”

“We’ve got three of them. Barbara doesn’t like it when the blue jay lands near her enclosure, so she screams her head off about it.”

"You keep any cows?"

"No, no cows. Too expensive for us to keep cows.”

Greg smiles to himself, a bit of a sour smile from remembering, “My grandpa owned a place full of cows once. He tried to rope me into working there.”

“Is that what you did?”

“No. I told him I didn’t have the stomach for it.”

“I hear you," Jimmy says with a knowing grin. "All you'll find here are goats, chicken, and the occasional pesky fox. I can show you and Tom around the place before supper, but that won’t be for another couple hours yet. Sit tight in the meantime.”

\---

In the evening, Greg and Jimmy make for poor conversationalists, while Martha O’Malley talks a mile-a-minute over a roast chicken dinner.

“These cups we’re drinking out of came from my mother, back when Russell and I had our wedding. My mother always called them pink cups, but I thought they looked purple. Whenever she stopped in, she called them the pink cups.”

“Sure, they look purple,” Tom agrees.

“And they got dirt all over the porch the last time they were here.”

“Who did?” Tom asks.

“Back in March. Jimmy remembers better than I do.”

Tom looks across the table for some help, lost in the maze of Martha’s line of thought. Jimmy keeps his eyes cast downward, his face neutral. The conversation had veered off ages ago from the subject of how she came to live on this property. 

“Jimmy,” Martha says.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t you remember when the— Who were they now? Oh, you know what, I was thinking of our old house. It’s a shame, isn’t it? I thought we’d live in that house until I was old. They just had to run us out of that place.”

“Who did?” Tom asks.

“That man. You know.”

Tom doesn’t know and Martha doesn’t elaborate. Jimmy finishes eating and gets up from the table to start cleaning the dishes he used to prepare the food. Beside Tom, Greg eats slowly but steadily. When he catches his eyes, he looks drained in a way that makes Tom weary just looking at him. Tom lifts the corners of his mouth in a sympathetic smile, and he nearly receives a smile back.

Tom watches Jimmy come back to the dining table. He slides into the chair adjacent to his mother and waits until she’s ended her anecdote before he calls her, “Ma.”

She turns to him, and he waits for the silence to settle. Then he asks slowly, “Are their rooms ready for them?”

“What? What?”

“Their rooms.”

“Their rooms! Oh, yes. Yes, they’re ready.”

“Do I need to fetch clean linens?”

“No, they’re all set.”

He nods, then looks over from down the table. “You boys must be beat. Call it an early night? Or you can join us in solving a jigsaw puzzle out in the living room. We’ve got beer.”

Greg decides to turn in for the night, so Jimmy shows them their rooms. The wooden flooring creaks underfoot as the three of them walk down the hall. The place may look like a log cabin from the outside, but the interior is relatively modern. The bathroom floor is made up of polished tile and their rooms are furnished, if not somewhat kitschy with brightly-colored crocheted blankets draped over padded mattresses. 

"Is this your room?" Greg asks, eyeing a photograph pinned up on the wall. It shows a group of men in military uniforms.

"It is," Jimmy answers. "Between the two, this one's got a proper mattress. You need it the most out of all of us. Sorry, Tom."

Tom says, "No, that's fine.”

“Where are you sleeping, then?” Greg asks Jimmy.

"The couch in the living room is perfectly serviceable. I'll be alright."

Greg accepts the room and thanks him sincerely, retiring for the night. Tom and Jimmy take beers to the front porch. For a long while, they sit and listen to the sound of crickets. There must be bugs on every inch of land ahead of them, judging by the sounds of it. The night is humid and dark. They light cigarettes as they sit on the porch steps. Two moths tumble overhead, trying to merge with the cloudy-glassed lightbulb above the front door.

“Is this...” Tom says, “Is it a total misstep, us being here? I mean, I wouldn't want to impose upon your mother's mental state.”

“She’s fine,” he replies, the strain in his voice suggesting otherwise. “No, she gets nervous around new people. That’s all.”

“She’s not always like that?”

“She’s always like this.” Jimmy blows out a long stream of smoke, then says, “To tell you the truth, I’m hoping this project of yours will get it all out of her system. It’s been weighing on her, I think.”

“Weighing on her how?”

“She’s been sitting on what’s she’s been through for over a decade. I’ve been waiting for her to get past it, but,” he takes a pull from his cigarette. “I was away from home for five years. I come back and she's talking about the same old things. It's like she hasn't moved an inch. Like she's running in circles. All I can say is, take it slow. Go on her time, not yours. Otherwise, you’ll lose patience and want to give up in a day's time.”

Slow wasn’t on Tom’s agenda. Coming here, he imagined a day’s trip. Two, if it was a long journey. He hadn’t anticipated how long or how dangerous getting here would be. He feels as though he's been gone from the city for an entire week. 

Jimmy asks, "You prepared to do that?"

"I think so. We've got time, anyhow. Thinking about Greg..." Tom clears his throat and taps the ashes from his cigarette onto the ashtray between them. “You said yourself that he shouldn't move around too much in his condition. I'd rather we stay put while he heals. But, um. But, in terms of compensation...?"

"Well, you'll get your story, won't you?"

"No, I mean how should we arrange to pay you for putting us up here?"

Jimmy settles his back against the flat beam of the porch railing, nonchalant as he shrugs: "It's not a problem. Plenty of surplus crop to go around."

Tom attempts to read between the lines. He expects to find an errant thread of irony in Jimmy's face, but finds nothing of the sort. 

Tom wakes at an ungodly hour to the sound of screaming somewhere in the house. His heart seizes in his chest and he lies in bed, tensely staring up at the ceiling. It’s barely light out, walls painted blue by the dawn. When the screaming subsides, Tom creeps towards the door, then stops with his hand around the doorknob as he listens in to assess the situation. He hears Jimmy's voice sounding measured and calm: "Ma, you're alright."

Tom decides to open the door. He peeks his head out to find Greg standing there, looking on from afar. 

"What's going on?" Tom asks him at a whisper.

Greg continues to look straight ahead into the dark of Martha's room, brow in a furrow. Lines gather at the side of Greg's mouth and he sighs, "Nightmares, I think."

"A lot of that going around."

Jimmy comes out of the room, shutting the door behind him. "Sorry about that. She's fine. Just ghosts."

"Ghosts?" Tom asks, perturbed.

"Memory ghosts. Old memories that come up to tap you on the shoulder, breathe down your neck?" Jimmy shrugs, making his way back to the living room. "Anyway, we're fine. Just another Tuesday. Go back to sleep, fellas." Tom doesn't need to be told twice.

The next time he awakens, the screeching of a goat carries into his room and jars him out of bed. He's up, he's awake. He would prefer not to know what he'd wake up to if he falls asleep again. He hears someone walking past his door, so he comes out to see who it is. It’s Jimmy, threading a belt through the belt loops of his jeans. 

“Morning,” Jimmy says, voice low. “I’m going into town.”

“There’s a town nearby?”

“It’s a bit of a drive and not much to look at. But it’s got what I need.” Jimmy catches Tom stealing a look at Greg’s door. It’s still shut. “Figure we should leave him be, let him rest. You wanna come with? Get you some supplies. Clean clothes, maybe.”

“That’d be great.”

The nearest town is over an hour’s drive and Tom spends more than half of the journey gripping whatever he can hold onto for dear life. There are no paved roads for miles, so Jimmy drives them over rolling grassland that flings the truck and its occupants into midair on multiple occasions. Jimmy appears unbothered by the bumpy ride, pointing out landmarks and never slowing his speed.

“Past that line of trees there,” he points, leaving one hand on the wheel and eyes off the path in front of them. “There’s a lake, good for fishing every now and then. The water’s clear over the rocks on the shore. You ought to see it for yourself.”

“Maybe I will.” If he survives the ride.

The town is small and unattractive, just as Jimmy had described it. The truck they come in is about a quarter of the size of its entirety. Tom walks into the general store where a white-haired man in a faded flannel shirt follows him with his eyes from behind the counter. He knows he sticks out like a sore thumb in his limp, dirt-stained oxford and slacks. He’s anxious to remedy that. He purchases clothes, shoes, a pad of paper, and toiletries—enough for Greg, too. When he returns to the truck, he finds Jimmy loading metallic parts into the truck bed. On the way back, Jimmy drives much slower, careful not to jostle the goods in the back.

At ease now, Tom asks Jimmy, "What happened to your mother?”

"You asking to ask, or is this for your investigation?"

"A little bit of both," Tom answers. "Mostly the latter."

He purses his lips slightly, looking out ahead as he thinks. "I don't have much to offer by way of information. All I know is somebody did something to her to make her scared. Made her feel hunted. Nowadays, he just shows up in her dreams like the boogeyman.”

“‘He’? You know who it was?”

“No,” Jimmy says. “I wish I did, so I could make it right.”

“Well, what do you remember? What do you remember from when your father passed away?”

“I was fourteen when my father died, just barely. I wasn't much of a thinker back then. Dumb as a dog. Pop was late for dinner one night, until he was late for breakfast, too. I thought that was fine, but I remember my ma causing a big fuss. Everyone up and down the neighborhood told her that he'd come home soon, and she'd scream and scream."

"Who did she talk to about it?"

"Neighbors, church friends. I don't know."

"Did anybody ever come around to your house back then to talk to her? Anybody who stood out in your mind?"

He hummed, thoughtfully. "I remember one man from my father's work. He sat me and my ma down in our living room. He gave me a little box of cereal. ”

"Do you remember what he was there for? What he said?"

"Not at all, sorry. I wonder, if you ask my mother, she might remember.”

“It's alright. No, it's fine," Tom says, anxious to get out of the car and run to the house himself. He's so certain that it's Elliott who visited them. Elliott was well-known in the company for his work with developing breakfast cereals before he rose in the ranks.

Tom takes a breath. Through the rearview mirror, he catches sight of the big bundle rocking around in the bed of the truck. He asks, "What've you got in the back?”

“Oh, this and that. I’ve been thinking about doing some improvements on the kitchen. And, uh, I’ve been playing around with distilling whiskey. It’s complicated.”

“It’s complicated?” Tom laughs. “That sounds like a real operation. Isn’t that illegal?”

Jimmy’s quiet for a stretch of time. Then, he asks warily, “Detective, are you with the police?”

“Goodness, no. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Great. That’s good. I haven’t been completely successful with the distillery yet, anyway. I don’t want to explode the barn or anything. It’s a lot of high pressure and high temperatures.”

“You looking to start a business?”

“Maybe. We’ll see. I should have you try some of the cider I made. My ma doesn't make for much of a taste tester. She doesn't drink. It could be one bathtub away from moonshine, for all I know.”

Tom takes a moment to consider what he knows about the farm and what Jimmy showed them yesterday. It’s clearly not a farm built for commercial business or profit. The crops they grow is nothing more than a vegetable garden. The chicken and goats they raise are practically house pets to them. Tom asks, "Where does your money come from? I mean, if you don't mind me asking. I'm just wondering what your main source of income might be on a farm like yours."

"Oh, we get by one way or another."

Tom knows not to pry when it comes to money talk, so he doesn't. When they get back to the house, Tom finds Greg and Martha in the living room. A phonograph in the corner plays a buoyant jazz piano piece, while Martha talks over the music: "And whenever he took her there, she'd always complain, 'Why can't they play any other sort of music?' as though she hadn't the slightest idea that she was at a jazz club."

Greg greets him from the sofa with a silent wave. He's made himself comfortable, lying on his back with a surly-faced grey cat curled up on his chest. 

Crossing the room, Tom asks Martha, "You've had a cat here this entire time?"

“Our in-house exterminator.” She nods sagely. “He doesn’t like people all that much, but he likes Greg.”

Tom stands there, laughing to himself. "Looks like he's mistaken Greg for a giant rodent."

“His name is Samuel,” Greg supplies, unbothered. He smiles and tells Tom, “That’s my middle name.”

“Samuel the cat.” Tom kneels down to pet him, but Samuel, disgusted, jumps to the floor with a thump and disappears down the hall. At face level with Greg now, he asks, “How are you feeling?”

“I'm better,” he says. He has dark circles under his eyes. “A lot better, actually.” He sits up slowly, wincing. He picks at the expanse of cat fur left on the front of his shirt.

"It's the water here," Martha suggests. "It has healing properties, you know. You’ll be right as rain in a matter of days.”

Into the afternoon, Tom works on pulling information from Martha. She talks in a disjointed way, her narrative flowing like a ship swept up in a seastorm. He doesn't know how to put her at ease, and he catches himself pacing the room as he facilitates conversation. More than half the time, she pushes instructions in Greg's direction to write down or cross out certain things she's said.

Tom has put Greg on note-taking duty and Greg sits on the floor, hunched over the notepad laid flat on the long coffee table. When Martha starts up on a story she's already told them, Tom hovers over Greg’s shoulder, squinting down at what he’s writing. His handwriting is narrow and tilted to the right and, to Tom’s dismay, wildly disrespectful of the ruled lines on the paper.

"That's— I mean, that's nice to hear... about the tea shop. But please," Tom says, desperately curbing the impatience in his voice, "can we get back to the man who visited you in February?"

Martha raises a brow. She regards him askance, as though Tom is the one completely off the mark: "It wasn't February."

Tom clenches his teeth into a grimace. "How about we take a break? We'll pick this up in the evening.”

\---

Greg deposits a pile of fresh blueberries on the ground. The hens go wild for it, scrabbling around his legs in a flurry. He watches the chickens on the outer edge of the crowd back off, defeated and empty-handed. He throws berries in front of them and they gobble it up. He tosses the rest of the blueberries across the way, sending the crowd running to the other side of the enclosure.

"There they go," Jimmy says in his gruff monotone, slouching against the fence from the outside. He opens the gate for Greg to come out and hands him a rag to wipe his hands off with.

"I'm sorry if Tom was a little, uh, short with your mother earlier. He's quick-tempered with people at first, but he's not so bad once you've gotten past that exterior, I guess."

“You don’t have to make excuses for him,” Jimmy replies, amused. "I already had my talk with Tom. And I know how my mother is."

"She's great," Greg says.

Jimmy pulls a long blade of grass from the ground and threads it through a hole in the fence around the goat enclosure. Barbara the goat comes over to gnaw on the grass from his hand. Without taking his eyes off the goat, he tells Greg, "You know, when you first made it up here to the house, you were out cold and Tom helped carry you into the barn. He was nearly sick with worry.”

"He was?"

He nods. “It was a sight to see. He took your shoes off with so much goddamned care, like he was handling two baby birds. I thought, if he could be gentle with you like that, you all must not be half bad. I've known bad people, and you’re not it.”

Greg holds Jimmy's words in his head. He wants them to last, as though their truth will expire the second he lets them go. He imagines Tom untying his shoes like he saw him untie his own a few nights before. 

"Are you two going to be alright on your own here? I've gotta take care of a few things off-site. I won't be back until late."

"Sure. Where are you off to?"

"Up the road a ways. Just errands."

"Anything I can help with?

"No, I'll be alright. Keep Tom and my ma company while I'm out, will you?” He packs a bulky bag into the truck and gets in. He waves from the open window and drives off.

In the late evening, Greg sits smoking on the ledge of the open window in his borrowed room as Tom sifts through the notes he'd taken throughout the day. He had filled three pages front-to-back, because he wanted to be thorough. He expects questions from Tom, maybe even a snippety comment here and there. Instead, Tom reviews the notes silently by the little lamp on the bedside table, then sets it down on the bed with a long sigh.

"Anything usable?" Greg asks. 

"Sure," Tom answers vaguely. He pats at his pockets with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. "I mean, sure."

Greg holds up his lighter as an offering, hoping Tom will join him by the window. He doesn't want him smoking in the middle of the room. It seems poor form, even if the O'Malleys had left an ashtray in the room.

Tom comes up to him, stepping away from the light of the lamp and into the dim with Greg. Greg ignites the lighter and holds it up. Tom cradles Greg's hand with both of his as he brings the end of the cigarette in his mouth over the flame. His grasp is startlingly gentle. The yellow glow of the flame reflects off the fat, dark pupils of his eyes when they share a look. Tom turns away, saying, "Thanks."

"Mhm."

Greg stands still as Tom moves past him to lean out the window. With his back turned to Greg, he asks, “Do you ever feel like you’re underwater? Or like your body suddenly isn’t your own?”

“All the time.”

He looks over at Greg, eyes wide. He looks like he just remembered who he's speaking to. He knows him now, parts of him. Greg's going to have to bear it. 

“Right,” Tom says quietly.

Greg puts his cigarette out in the ashtray, nearly satiating his need to crush something. He asks, unsteady, "Why would you make a deal with Shiv?"

"We're still talking about that?"

Greg breathes, unable to unravel the tension in his shoulders. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and keeps his head bowed low. "Was it - was it for her?"

"No," he answers, his expression steady and honest. Then his gaze falls to the floor. "She offered me a job. At Waystar."

"You want to get back, don't you," Greg suggests. He thinks of the look on Tom's face at the party at the Pierce estate. He remembers his clear desperation. "You want to get back that badly?"

"I'm not so sure anymore. I don't think it was ever real." Tom's eyes turn dark and distant. It passes in a lopsided way, his mouth upturned in a sad smile. "But I was thinking, you know, maybe the two of us could make a go of it. You're not half bad as a detective's assistant. If you put yourself through schooling, we could even start to discuss the possibility of partnering up."

"School," Greg says, almost hopeful himself. "I could never afford to do that."

"What about the, uh, GI Bill? Wouldn't that pay your way?"

"No. I mean, no, it would. Would’ve. But - but, uh. There’s this, um.” He sits down on the bed, not wanting to look Tom in the eyes when he tells him, “The issue with that is, I don't get any benefits. I was discharged from the military. Um, dishonorably? And it wasn't for anything horrible. It's just— I lied on my papers. I lied on a lot of people's papers, actually."

"What?"

"I was young and - and I made quite a bit of money forging paperwork for people. Not just my own. Nobody found me out. Not until I was in the hospital, after I got shot. They were about ready to send me home. And then they found some inconsistencies. In my work? But that's not what I do, anymore. It was a stupid thing to do for a lot of reasons. And now I can't go back to school and I have a lot of trouble finding work. So it's just... you know? But I wanted you to know this, because I don't want to keep things from you. I think it's best if we're honest with each other."

Cautiously, they eye each other. Greg can't read Tom's expression, but he watches Tom’s shoulders. He waits for him to pull back and walk away. Tom takes a step forward.

Greg looks up at Tom, and Tom is looking at him fondly.

“Wh-what?”

“That’s just so fucking funny. I mean, the situation... isn’t funny,” Tom laughs. “But it’s just— You’re an honest-to-god career criminal.”

“No,” he argues, panicked. He comes to a stand, advancing upon Tom’s space. He doesn’t want his voice to carry. “That’s not—”

“Greg, shut up. Shut up,” he says, voice at a whisper. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“How is it not?”

Tom answers in silence, eyes on him with a startling intensity. Greg attempts to decipher it in the light. Then Tom’s lips meet his in a kiss, the action gripping and violent like a thunderbolt to the spine.

They step back from each other. Tom looks panicked with his jaw hinging open and shut. He turns away suddenly and walks off, muttering, “I’ve gotta go. See you tomorrow.”

Greg replies in a daze, “Uh huh. Tomorrow.” 

Greg accepts that it’s no use trying to fall asleep, so he combs through his notes in bed. He flips through the notebook, but doesn’t take in a single word when he scans the pages. He runs his conversation with Tom through his head. He’s mostly certain that he told the story all wrong. He isn’t sure what he said anymore, because it doesn’t make sense for Tom to have reacted that way.

He turns the notebook to a fresh blank page. He decides to write it all down. He considers writing Tom a letter. Greg searches for a pen and pulls open the drawer of the bedside table. He sees a business card, and it looks familiar.

Greg picks up the card and brings it under the moonlight that comes in through the window. Alarmed, he gets up from the bed to rifle through the pockets of his coat hanging on a chair. He finds the business card from Gerri and puts the two side by side.

At that moment, he hears Jimmy’s truck outside his window. Greg rushes out to meet him with the two cards in his hand. “Why do you have this?”

“What’s that?” Jimmy’s eyes fall on the business cards and his expression turns like a knife. He takes Greg by the arm. They stumble into the barn.

“Do you work for them?” Greg asks, urgent.

“No,” he says. “I mean, once. It was just once.”

“Doing what? What did they have you do?”

He brings an arm up to run a hand through his hair, agitated. “It was to correct some personal business, alright? It was as much for me as it was for them.”

“What was it?” When Jimmy responds with a reticent look, Greg brings his head down closer to his eye level. He presses, “Jimmy.”

He looks down at the cards again, then up at Greg with the realization clear on his face: “You have one, too.” 

Greg stands his ground.

“We’re the same, aren’t we,” Jimmy says. “They come for us ex-military. Nowhere to go. Good with a handgun.”

Greg shakes his head. “Good with following orders.”

“You know that Sutherland fella that your man Tom keeps asking about?”

“What about him?”

Jimmy holds his gaze, a hardened expression there. “He caused a lot of harm for a lot of people. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I did it for a good reason, but. You know.”

“I do,” Greg says.

“You gonna give me up, Greg?”

“I don’t - I don’t know. Probably not. I mean, I wouldn’t."

“It’d mean a lot if you didn’t. But I’d get it if you did,” he says. He puts his hands up in surrender. “Cards on the table.”

Greg nods. “Cards on the table.”


	5. Chapter 5

In the following days, a heatwave descends upon the Catskills, and Tom's head feels like it's hovering ten feet away from his body at all times. Tom stays indoors with Martha while the sun is out, despite Greg and Jimmy venturing out to tend to the animals or the land. Delirious with the heat, Tom begins to make sense of what Martha tells him. His notes are clumsy and perhaps incomprehensible. Everything he does becomes clumsy, especially in the small moments where he meets eyes with Greg and blurts out anything that comes to mind. He doesn't want to talk about it.

One evening, when the night air chases away the heat, Jimmy makes a firepit and sets out three lawn chairs. He treats them to his homemade cider, which Tom chokes on with the first sip. "By golly, that's strong."

"Is it?" Jimmy asks, chuckling. He drinks from his own cup, only coming away from it with a slight wince. "I must've overdid it with the sugar." 

"You could fill your gas tank with it and it'd take you to the moon and back."

"I think it's good," Greg offers, drinking contently. The way Tom sees it, Greg would drink pickle juice straight from the jar and be grateful. Even worse, Tom finds himself moony-eyed from the mere thought of it. He hides his face behind his glass.

As the night goes on, they drink the rest of the cider at a competitive pace, because there's little else for them to do. They plan on leaving this place in a couple days. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but Tom can’t help but feel morose about it.

“What’ll you do after we leave?” Tom asks Jimmy.

“Do what I always do,” he answers. “Stay here on the farm. Watch and wait.”

Greg says, “Your mother seems more relaxed. She had a lot to say.”

"You’re right, she does. I sure am glad the two of you showed up here," Jimmy says, wistful. "Serendipitous, truly. I feel like I tried just about everything to make things right for my ma. You’d think killing the man of your mother’s nightmares would fix things, at least a little. But."

Tom whips his head towards Jimmy, stammering, "Wh— You what?"

"You didn’t know. Greg didn't tell you?" he gapes at Tom, shifting in his seat. "Well. Shit."

Tom looks to Greg, who sits sternly and silently, which is confirmation enough. He sits back in his chair and his head swims. Hands over his face now, he notes that he's a touch too inebriated to make sense of the situation. He says, inert, "I'll be damned." 

"What are you going to do?" Greg asks quietly beside him.

He turns towards Jimmy, watching him. His shoulders are slanted low and his brow is in a furrow, looking as guilty as a dog. Tom redirects the question to him, "What are _you_ going to do?"

"Nothing,” Jimmy answers slowly. “I want nothing more than to forget it all happened."

They’re quiet, alone in their own thoughts. The fire dies down, and Tom is thankful for the chance to hide in the dark for a while. Before it goes out completely, Jimmy gets up to jab at the fire with a stick, the light coming back to their half-circle.

“I don’t blame you,” Greg offers. “I get it.”

“And I appreciate that,” Jimmy replies, sitting down. “You know, ask anybody and they’d think I’m out of my mind letting a couple strangers crawl up a mountain and into my house to ask all these questions, but I really do believe in what you’re doing. I know I’m doing a piss-poor job of taking care of my mother. And I know now that any measure I take to fix things won’t ever change what happened and how she’s like. I’ve come to realize, y’know, that I can’t be doing these things for her and expect results. I can only control what I do. I can only act on what’s gonna make things right from here on out.”

“And what’s that?” Tom asks, soberly.

He exhales and turns to Tom, mildly exasperated. "The way I see it, I swatted a bee when I should’ve went for the hive. I know you can’t undo taking a life, but I wonder, if I can help you in never letting this all happen again to anybody else, maybe we can breathe easier. Maybe it’ll help for good. So, I killed a man. Did it for milk money from the pockets of the people I hate the most. What are you going to do about it, Detective?”

Tom sits there and thinks on it. Up until a couple of days ago, he hadn't expected to seriously consider Greg's investigation and the implications that came with it. He's never been big on ethical considerations. He gets the job done and that's what matters. Used to matter. He looks to Greg again and his gaze is as steady as before, his mouth in a straight line. He knows what he would want him to say, so he says it: “We’ll forget it.”

When the cider is finished and the fire goes out, they turn in for the night. On the way towards the house, Greg halts him with a gentle hand on his. 

“Tom,” he says, beseeching. “You won’t turn him in, right?”

Tom studies his face. Greg’s hair, swept to the side and as messy as the day he met him, frames his face in a way that makes him look like a prince in a storybook. He wonders if that’s how he knew him before. If Greg is the brave prince, then what does that make Tom?

Greg asks, “You meant it?”

“I meant it,” Tom answers. “All of it.”

On the day before their departure, they take a walk to the lake. Tom is thankful for the breeze, but the sun still beats down on them mercilessly. He watches as Greg takes wide steps through the grassy knolls and banks, growing more confident the farther they go without any aches or pain. When the two of them get close enough to see the lake, Greg breaks out into an equine gait, his long legs thumping against the ground. 

“Goodness gracious,” Tom mutters to himself, running after him.

They reach the water and Greg grins back at him maniacally, looking like the physical embodiment of an exclamation mark. He’s clearly pleased with the view. The lake is a pristine clear, sloshing in rolling waves at their feet. The pebbles on the shore crunch beneath the hard soles of their shoes as they walk side by side.

“I feel like we’ve been cooped up for so long. For years, maybe,” Greg says.

“You’ve been outside every day.”

“Hmm,” he responds absently, mind a hundred miles away. There’s a slight sheen of sweat on his face, strands of hair gathered damp against his forehead. Tom knows they’ll both be sunburnt before long.

In his head, he’s had hundreds of conversations with Greg over the past few days. He imagined himself telling him everything. Telling him his life story. Telling him everything he’s done right and wrong in his life. But now, he can’t even begin a sentence. He tries, “Greg, listen.”

Greg turns to look at him and Tom clams up, unable to find the right words. They stand face to face under the shade of a giant beech tree, just watching one another. Then Greg starts taking off his shoes.

“What are you doing?” Tom asks, startled.

“You wanna go for a swim? We should go for a swim.” He slips a sock off, jumping on one leg. He asks, “You ever try skinny dipping before?”

“What?”

“C’mon," Greg urges, eyes bright. He unbuttons his shirt in a hurry.

Before Tom knows it, he’s taking off his own clothes, too. His heart beats out of his chest. Nervous, he swiftly gets undressed, tosses his clothes onto a tree, and darts into the lake.

“Holy shit, it’s so cold!” he shrieks, chest-deep into the water. 

When he looks back to the shore, Greg is standing there with his shoulders up to his ears, slowly coming deeper into the water. When the water is halfway up to his knees, Greg stands there unabashedly naked, looking out into the distance. Tom stares, with his eyes caught on the long, thin lines of Greg's body. His gaze falls to the juncture between Greg’s thighs, to the thatch of dark hair there and his flaccid cock. He notices the distinct ridge of his pink cockhead; he's circumcised.

Tom feels himself blushing horribly, so he swims away. He busies himself with splashing noisily into the far reaches of the lake. His senses are abuzz with the desire to stare longer. "Fuck. Fuck, what am I doing," he grumbles to himself against the current. He swims until he feels the beginning of a cramp in his legs. 

"Tom!" he hears.

"What," he yells.

The little dot in the distance grows larger as Greg swims towards him. Better composed now, Tom doggy-paddles in his direction at a leisurely pace. When they meet in the middle, Greg swims in circles around him like a giant gleeful shark. He looks so happy. "How's it feel?"

"Feels really good."

Greg laughs. "Can you believe this is a real place?"

"It's surely something."

They bob along the water together for a while, swaying gently with the waves. Suddenly, Greg says, "I'll race you to the dock,” and he goes splashing away.

Tom catches up to him a long moment after Greg reaches the finish line, which is fine by him. They watch each other for a while, breathless and content. Then Greg ducks under the water to pop up again on the side of the dock. He pulls himself up to sit on the ledge, legs dangling into the water. Tom follows him there, sitting beside him.

“You alright?” Tom asks.

“Just... it’s nice to be out here. I’m gonna miss this place.” His eyes are closed, face tipped towards the sunlight. The pale contour of his shoulder is mottled with the lightest of freckles. Tom never would’ve noticed that before.

Tom brings his thighs closer together and hunches his back forward, trying not to be so obvious about the gesture. Here they are, dripping wet and naked together on a lake. A couple nights before, Tom had kissed him. He’s not even sure how it happened. He slipped. He wonders if it was a mistake. He doesn’t want it to be a mistake. 

“You keep looking at me like that,” Greg says. He turns to look Tom in the eyes, humor in his expression. “You’re gonna give me the wrong impression.”

“What’s the right impression?”

Greg’s eyes fall to his lips. Tom holds still, daring him to move. Greg brings a hand up and draws his thumb up against the side of Tom’s mouth. Tom wants it so badly, but he’s not going to move.

“How’d you get this?” Greg asks, voice faint. He drops his hand. “You know about my scars. What about yours?”

Tom turns to face ahead of him, peering out into the distance. “It’s silly. I don’t have any war stories.”

“But you do. You might not’ve been in a war, but.”

Tom laughs quietly, a sardonic laugh. Greg is asking about the scar on his upper lip and on the side of his face. They’re both from the same incident. He’d always thought they would fade with age, but they might’ve only deepened over the years. “Bike accident when I was twelve. I fell off. Nothing exciting.”

“Where did you grow up?”

He likes to make a game of letting other people guess. He prefers to evade the question, however he can. He admits, “Minnesota. Pathetic, isn't it?”

“Everybody's gotta come from somewhere. Is Minnesota nice?”

“No,” Tom answers immediately. “It really isn’t. I’d rather die than go back there, if we're being honest. Sure, in all fairness, my parents aren’t bad people and I had a nice childhood, but you know. I belong out in the city, where I have a better chance at having a life.”

“How do you know?” Greg asks. Genuinely asks. “I mean, how do you know where you belong?”

"Ah, maybe I've got this wrong. And maybe it's not the city, per se. But the only time I ever felt right was when I was a part of the Roy family. Or it always felt close to being right, anyway. And - and it's not all about the money, either. On your own, it's so easy to let fate dictate who you are. When you've got the power that the Roys have, you've got the power to decide on your own."

"That shouldn't be how it is, though. You don't really— Do you care—or, not care, but um. What Jimmy said last night...? Do you - do you get why everything we're doing here is so important?"

"No, not entirely," Tom says, apologetic. "But I know that I want to help you. I really want to. Is, um, is that enough?"

"It's enough." Greg kisses him. 

Tom surges up against his lips, wanting. Desire wraps around him like a snake. He doesn't want it to let go.

When they get into the city, they're caught up in a storm. For the time being, Tom and Greg are shielded from the elements as they stand under the train station awning. The city through the rain is a vague blur of greys and blacks, just like they remember it. Tom takes in the dirty blackness and hesitates to step out into it.

"My place is nearby," Greg tells him. "A couple of blocks down. We can walk?"

"Let's walk."

Bravely, they start off and the rain beats down on them, soaking through their clothes instantly. The rain falls harder than before. Picking up speed ahead of Tom, Greg hunches his shoulders and lets out a laugh. Tom feels water run down his neck and down his shirt, and he can't help but laugh with him as they blindly splash through puddles like schoolchildren.

Greg exclaims, "Here, here!" and descends a flight of steep stairs that lead to a basement. He fumbles in his pocket for a key, then they burst inside in a hurry. Greg shuts the door behind them with a click.

They stand there, dripping onto the concrete floors while a draft blows in from who-knows-where. They grin at each other despite themselves and despite the chill. Greg’s wet hair sticks to his face at odd angles and the pale blue light from the high little windows makes him look ghastly and beautiful.

Tom shivers. He says, “Come here.”

Greg presses his lips into a thin line, a gleam in his eyes. In no hurry, he crosses the space between them, so Tom rushes in to meet him. He cups the back of Greg’s neck, pulling him in so that their mouths meet. He sucks the rainwater off Greg’s bottom lip, and Greg tugs at the lapels of his coat.

"You’re all wet,” Greg says.

“So are you.”

They pull away from each other, both on the edge of another peal of deranged laughter. Greg’s eyes drift to his bed, and all at once, they start pulling off their clothes. Coats fall to the floor with a slosh and shirts tangle around arms. They fall into Greg’s bed, naked and breathless. Tom puts his hands and mouth wherever he can, wanting to chase away the cold on Greg's skin. There's not enough time in the world to run his hands over every inch of him.

Greg breathes against Tom's ear, whispering, “You want me to show you what I like?”

Tom nods.

Greg stands to retrieve a stout, spherical glass jar from a high shelf. He twists the cap and plunges his hand into the mouth of the jar. Tom watches this, baffled.

Greg returns to the bed with the jar and a mess on his hands. He lies on his back, tipping his knees apart and planting the soles of his feet flat against the bed. This exposes him fully and Tom looks on. 

He gathers the voice to ask, “Do you want me to touch you?”

“Just watch for now,” Greg answers simply. He spreads himself open with both hands and brings his paste-coated fingers to the pucker of his asshole, then his middle finger sinks in. Greg lets out a shuddering breath. Heat rises in Tom’s face and all throughout his chest as he watches Greg’s finger push in, down to the first knuckle. When he adds a second finger, there’s more resistance there as he pushes in slowly.

“Does that hurt?” Tom asks, barely above a whisper.

“No,” he says, color high in his cheeks. He grunts low as he adds another finger. “Feels good.”

Tom is dizzy with the sight of him: Greg fucking himself with his fingers, knees bent and ass raised off the bed. Greg’s stiffened cock bobs against his stomach when he brings his hips down roughly to sink deeper onto his fingers.

“Tom,” he calls to him suddenly, his name coming out ragged and obscene. Tom crawls to him on all fours. Greg guides him onto his back with a hand at his shoulder as Tom blinks up at him. He strokes Tom’s cock and leans over to find a condom. Tom knows this part. He can do this part. 

Greg maneuvers Tom where he wants him, and Tom lets himself be shifted and pulled. They're face to face now, Tom hovering over him with his thoughts racing. He sees Greg watching his face for a long moment, so he asks him, "What?"

"Come down here."

"I am here," Tom insists. Dissatisfied, Greg wraps his arms around Tom's upper back and holds him tight. Face buried in Greg's neck, Tom protests, "Hold on, you're injured."

"No, stay here," he says. "Stay here with me."

Tom pulls himself up, just enough to look him in the eyes. With certainty, he tells him, "I'm here, I'm here."

They kiss for a while, nothing but disgusting, messy kisses that devolve into panting against each other's mouths as they rub their hips together gracelessly. In time, Greg draws his knees up from under Tom, bringing the side of his legs flat against the bed. He grasps Tom's cock, bumping the tip against his slick opening. They meet eyes with one another, an unspoken directive passing between them. Tom nods, feeling his heart hammer away in his chest.

When he pushes in, the tight heat is such a shock to Tom that he lets out a long, high moan against the side of Greg's face. Greg puts a finger to his lips, hushing him with the sweet corners of his mouth upturned in a smile. It's a lot. It's so much. He can feel his legs shaking. It's never been like this before. He's inside of Greg but he feels like the control is out of his hands. He waits for an order or a signal from Greg, watching his eyes like it's the only thing that'll pull him out of this frozen state. Greg cups his chin and brings him in for a kiss, just a light peck. 

Tom blinks, like waking from a stupor. He asks, desperate, "Is this alright?"

"Mm. S'good," he says, head falling back onto his pillow. "Come on."

With jerky movements, Tom slides deeper into Greg, then out again. It’s so tight and he doesn’t want to hurt him. He searches Greg's face. Greg's eyes flicker up to his and reaches around with both hands to squeeze his ass, drawing him in closer. Tom gasps helplessly as Greg pulls Tom's hips in then out. 

Tom drops his forehead against Greg's shoulder and allows himself to be handled. He curses roughly like he's dangling over a ledge, "Fuck, fuck."

"That's it. Just like that," Greg gasps against his ear. "You're so good."

Tom nods and nods. The encouragement is enough to spur him on. He wants nothing more than to keep hearing Greg tell him how good he is. He wants to show him how good he can be. Determined now, he fucks into him deep, just like Greg showed him.

Greg brings a hand down between them and palms at his own cock, his knuckles brushing against Tom's stomach with each stroke. He takes sharp little intakes of breath, close to the edge. Tom is almost there too. He's out of his mind with it. He's drooling against Greg's ear, grunting, "I'd do anything for you. Just fucking ask and I'll do it, anything." Then Greg bites down on his neck, so Tom comes inside of him with a full-body shiver.

Afterwards, they clean each other off with a wet rag and put on the bare minimum of clothes. Tom has no idea what time it is. There are no clocks around and he doesn't know where his watch has gone. The sheets of rain coming down outside shelters them from time and everything that comes with it.

They share a can of vegetable soup. They talk endlessly about nothing and laugh over it, as if they've always lived here in this old musty basement with stiff dress shirts hanging over the clothesline and boxes of powdered soap stacked above the sink.

When it gets dark, they turn on a lamp and fuck again, carefully and slowly. Tom tells Greg to put his fingers inside of him, like Greg did to himself before, and he's sure that his soul leaves his body for a moment when he spurts come across his chest. They sleep fitfully but quietly, sharing a single pillow. Greg tosses and turns, while Tom can't decide where to put his hands. Tom sleeps with his fingers wrapped around Greg's wrist or flat against his chest, lulled to sleep best with the soft rhythm of Greg's heartbeat against his fingertips. 

In the early morning, the pace of the rain slows to a crawl. In bed, Tom wraps his arms around Greg from behind, and they watch the precipitation gather and run down the dirty windows. Tom draws the tip of his index finger down the skin of Greg’s side, obsessed with the contours and angles that rise against the pad of his finger. His finger catches on the bones of his bruise-stained ribs and then on the gnarled bit of scar tissue below. Greg squirms out of his reach.

“No, come back,” Tom laughs. “I like it.”

“The scar?”

“Mhm.” Tom ducks his head down to plant sucking kisses along his side.

Greg sighs under his touch. “They said that I was lucky. If the bullet got me any higher or any lower, I would’ve died. Sometimes I wonder if I did."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know. I read about this thing somewhere. About how there are all these different parallel universes that we don't know about. Maybe in some of those universes, I died before a corpsman found me on the field. Or the bullet hit me somewhere else."

"That's a little morbid."

"Maybe," Greg contemplates, sounding as if he's weighing its morbidity for the first time. He decides, "It's not all bad, though. Because, in another universe, we could've met under different circumstances. In another time, where there wasn't so many secrets. Not so many scars. We'd both be a little different from how we are here. We'd meet at a party, in a crowded room or across a field. You would've seen me and I would've seen you, and we'd just know."

"Know what?"

"Um, I guess we'd sort of recognize each other, but in a different way. We might not really know it, but we'd feel something somewhere in the back of our minds."

Tom recalls the unshakeable feeling of recognition from his first meeting with Greg. He thinks that maybe it's true. As if, the moment they met, a different version of him reached out through the ether to tap him on the shoulder, saying, _It's him. Don't you remember?_

Neither of them have money for a taxi, so they walk. They walk towards Manhattan through the streets of Brooklyn. The sun has come out, but the puddles remain. And in the puddles are asphalt-caked trash heaps and grease-stained panhandlers. Tom feels grimy, having had little chance for a proper shower. Greg's bathroom had no hot water.

Tom hurries forward, the cloth of his wrinkled slacks clinging to his legs uncomfortably. He says, “This is insane. I should stop into a bank. I can withdraw money and get us a cab.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Greg says. “The walk isn’t so bad after the bridge. I do this all the time.”

Tom ignores him and finds a bank. His remaining balance nearly throws him into a fit of hysterics. He asks the teller, “Did I get robbed? What— When was my last withdrawal?”

Reviewing the ledger, it comes to him all at once. He had paid for both of their custom-made suits from the tailor. He had paid for that dinner. If things had gone a different way, he would have had the money from Shiv. And maybe even the money from Mary Sutherland. Instead, he only has what's left in his account.

When he comes out of the bank, Greg asks beside him. “What’s wrong?”

Tom blinks numbly. “Nothing.”

The taxi driver eyes them both and makes a disapproving sound, sucking his teeth. Like he knows what they are, just by the looks of them. As they ride down the street, Tom stares out the window, feeling raw. He’s lived in a fantasy for the past several days. He worked so hard to build an armor against the trappings of everyday life out here. He resents having been tricked into letting his guard down. He’s got to build it up again, right from the beginning, starting now. He imagines the state his office must be in. Last time he saw it, he left Roman alone in there to go through all his things. 

When they arrive, his office door is shut and locked. He unlocks the door and enters cautiously. Everything is in its rightful place, save for a note on his desk written in familiar handwriting: Call me.

“What do we do now?” Greg asks from the other side of the room.

Tom’s eyes flicker to his, then down again. He crumples the note in his hand. “I’m meeting with Mary Sutherland. She’s been waiting for an update.”

“Right,” he says. “What are you going to tell her?”

“The truth.”

“The - the truth? Everything?”

“She needs to know what happened to her husband, and I need to tell her.”

“I mean, you’ll tell her?” Greg steps closer to him, that injured look on his face. “About Jimmy?”

Tom says evenly, “I need to. It’s— I know what I said before, but it didn’t mean anything. This is a job. And I’m not one to let my clients down. I’m not about to let that change.”

“But he’s not a bad person, Tom. He doesn’t deserve—”

“Greg. You’re honestly asking me to let a man get away with murder? We can’t tamper with the truth due to a perpetrator being nice.”

“But it’s not so cut and dry. You know him and you know there were, I don’t know, factors at play. Right?”

“At the end of the day, it’s not that complicated of a decision. This is the job. You can’t be so sentimental about it. You can’t get so attached.”

Greg’s shoulders fall, and he stands there studying Tom’s face like it’ll mean anything. He asks, “Is this about the money?”

“No. No, it’s not about money. It’s about reality,” he says. “Weren’t you the one who came in here a week ago, pushing your ideals on me? About putting the truth out there for everyone to see? How is this any different?”

He expects Greg to budge. To think about it, at least a little. Greg only stands in the middle of the room with his eyes on him, looking betrayed. He pleads, “Don’t do it.”

“Greg.”

“Tom, I’m asking.”

Tom sighs heavily. He crosses his arms, ignoring the horrible beating of his heart. “No. The answer’s no.”

The gleam of hope dies in Greg’s eyes. His hands fan out uselessly at his sides. With a waver in his voice, he says, “I think— I think we’ve spent too much time together. I need to go. I need to be on my own for a while.”

Tom watches him go, confounded by Greg’s reaction. He sits down at his desk, heavy like a stone. The silence he’s left with feels decisive and irreversible. He’s on his own again, just like before.

Then he eyes the crumpled note on his desk. He picks up the receiver and starts dialing.

\---

The next day, a car is waiting for him. When Greg gets inside, he's handed a manila envelope full of photographs. He knows the drill. He leafs through them, and he’s immediately alarmed by what he sees. 

“Wait," he says. "No. I - I need to talk to Logan.”

Gerri says, “I thought you would.”

When they arrive at the headquarters of Waystar Royco, his first instinct is to keep his head down and slouch his shoulders. He catches himself before he lets that happen. He follows Gerri through the lobby and up the elevator with his back straight and his head held high. This might be all he has left.

They ride to the very top. Logan’s office stands at the end of a long pool of desks. Greg can see the door straight ahead. He's been here before, and it's just as he remembers it: all gleaming marble, gold trim, and a chill that he can't quite place. Greg is led inside Logan's office and an assistant shuts the door behind him, leaving him alone with his great-uncle.

“Greg," Logan instructs from his desk, "have a seat.”

His courage shrinks against his will. He sits. “Hiya, Uncle Logan. Good to see you. You're looking, uh, very sprightly. Looking very well."

Logan, scrutiny clear on his face, sits unaffected by his pleasantries. He peers at him with slightly hooded eyes, reading him like a poorly-written bulletin. "I've been told you have questions for me."

Greg nods, withering. He swallows. "How - how long has Kendall been out?”

“A couple days, maybe. Give or take. I had nothing to do with his release. I’m not the one who posted his bail.”

“Right," he says. "Right. Has he, um— So, he met with that private detective? Do you know what for?”

“Do you understand what I’m having you do?” he asks sharply.

“Yes,” he answers. “But, um. I'm wondering— I'd like to know, actually, why you’re asking me to do it?”

“I promised you a job, didn’t I?”

“And this is the job?”

“This is _a_ job. You make good on this and I’ll give you what you’ve been after. No more fieldwork. You come aboard and work with the suits in this building, get you an office of your own. It's what all this trouble has been for, hasn't it?”

He's wrong. That hasn't been the reason at all, but Greg knows not to dispute it. “Is there some other way? I mean, I'd prefer not to do this, you know? I've already done what you've told me to, and it's - it's not what I do. I can, um, talk to him. I can tell him to throw out the investigation?"

“Tom knows about you. Shiv and Kendall met with him yesterday to tell him that you set that fire, and they’ve arranged to have him get that out to the public. I've worked very hard to protect your anonymity, but they'll make waste of it in a day's time if you don’t act now. Tom will approach the press and all eyes will be on you."

"He wouldn't do that," Greg blurts out. He shakes his head at himself, hearing the truth of that statement shatter as it hits the air.

“That slippery fuck would sell you down the river for five minutes of fame and a handful of cash. You've given him something very valuable. And, I wonder, what else does he know about you? When the public asks him about the person responsible for the deaths of nearly 80 people, what will he say? What sort of picture will he paint for those salacious news goons over at The Mail or The Enquirer?”

In his seat, Greg taps his index finger against the armrest, like it's his only anchor. He feels his throat constricting and his head swimming, but he puts it aside to focus on the tap-tap-tapping of his fingernail hitting the cool metal repeatedly.

"Anything else?" Logan asks, knowing there isn't.

"No. That's all."

\---

Gregory Samuel Hirsch was born in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada on March 3, 1924 to Marianne (née Roy) and Nathan Hirsch. He attended Orchard Peak School in Syracuse, New York from 1939 to 1941, but did not graduate. He volunteered for the United States Marine Corps through a recruitment facility in Brooklyn. He trained in Parris Island, South Carolina until his division was sent to the Solomon Islands where they fought in Guadalcanal. Greg was injured and admitted to Aiea Naval Hospital on January 19, 1943, then court-martialed in the following months. There is a gap in paperwork between 1944 and 1948, although Tom guesses that he was working under the table here and there. Records, however, clearly show that Greg was employed with Brightstar Circus from October 10, 1948 until the day of the fire, July 16, 1949.

These are the facts given to Tom by Kendall and Shiv. Every word of it rings true to what Greg had ever told him. Greg's only transgression is that he lied by omission. Tom has spent the last 24 hours looking for a sign or a change that told him that Kendall was wrong. That Shiv and Kendall were somehow tricking him. That Greg is actually innocent. This is his last bitter search.

Gregory Hirsch comes into his office ten minutes after closing time with the cuff of his sleeves frayed and his hair unkempt. He says nothing, his eyes on him with a sharp remoteness Tom wishes he didn't understand. He knows him, but he doesn't know him at all. They had agreed to ride together to one of the meatpacking factories after hours. This would be their way of capping off the investigation, before bringing the final report to Naomi's press contact.

"I wanted to talk to you," Tom whispers in the back of a taxi cab.

"There's nothing to talk about. We finish this, then we're through."

They arrive at the factory grounds and everything is dark and dead. It's eerie quiet. Nothing but acres of smooth asphalt and a collection of bland, metallic structures where Waystar Royco grinds their meat. It's a killing ground, sterile and pristine from the outside. Tom wants to find solace in knowing that they're here alone together, but the Greg he knows isn't with him. They wind around the building, coming up on a side door that's hidden in an alleyway between two structures. 

Before Tom starts working on the door, he turns around to face Greg. He calls his name, hoping it'll invoke something. Anything. “Greg.”

"Do Shiv and Kendall know that you're here with me?"

His nerves spike. "What?"

Greg draws a gun, so Tom looks over his shoulder. For a moment, he thinks the gun is for someone else. He expects to find someone standing behind him. His eyes settle on Greg once more, the realization dawning on him. “Look, Greg. I don't want to do this. I don't care about what you did. I’ll give up my job. We can forget all of this.”

“Stop.”

"Please."

"I'm sorry, Tom," he says. "You were right."

There's a stretch of silence. Then Greg aims, lowering the barrel by an inch. When Greg pulls the trigger, Tom’s life doesn’t flash before his eyes. He doesn’t see a light at the end of a tunnel. He’s only left with a pain in his side that has him gasping for air. He takes short, undignified breaths as he collapses onto the ground.

When he looks up, Greg is gone, just like that. Vanished. A silly little thought finds its way into his head, whispering to him that Greg was never really there. He can believe it. He tips his head back against the concrete wall, and the voice in the back of his head asks, “Any regrets?”

He thinks of the beads of water running down the side of Greg’s freckled shoulder on that day at the lake. He thinks of the way Tom held him in the quiet of the morning just the day before. He feels warm. He feels peace.

He answers, “No. None at all.”


End file.
